VERSES, 



" Sister, what have you here — verses ? pray you let's see ; who made these 
verses ? They are excellent good." " O master Wellbred, 'tis your dispo- 
sition to say so, Sir. They were good in the morning, I made them extem- 
pore this morning." — Ben Jonson. 

Myself was once a student, and indeed 

Dreaming of nought but idle poetry. 

That fruitless and unprofitable art, 

Good unto none, but least to the possessors. — Idem. 

Per dar solazzo a ciascun auditore 
Voglio cantar in rima una novella, 
E se ascoltate con allegro core 
Credo che forse ella vi parra bella, 
E se attenti starete al dolce canto, 
Di farui rider cantando mi vanto. 

Historia bellissima di Campriano, Trevigi, 1674. 

If you look for a good speech now, you undo me : for what 1 have to say 
is of mine own making ; and what, indeed, I should say, will, I doubt, 
prove my own marring. — Shakspeare. 

Me temo que se mosquSe 
De este cuento — 
I Se mosqu^a ? Bien est&. 
I Pero este tal por Ventura 
Mis fabulas leerS ? — Iriarie. 

Si vous me savez peu de grfe de ce que je dis, sachez ra'en beaucoup de 
ce que je ne vous dis pas. — Diderot. 



VERSES. 



ALEXANDER JOHN ELLIS. 



CAMBRIDGE: 

PRTKTED EY METCALFE AND PALMER, TRINITT STREET, 

FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 
MDCCCXXXVI. 






•^ -3 



205449 
'15 




TO 



a^ 



Je sais bien que le lecteurii'a pas grand besoin de savoir tout tela; mais 
j'ai besoin, moi. de le lui dire. — Ronsscau. 



Two words by way of excuse for printing — 
I have not so far transgressed the bounds of modesty as 
to publish — the following verses. I wished, as the time 
grew nigh for quitting College, to prepare a little present 
for my friends, which, were we separated, might remind 
them of the pleasant times we had passed together. To 
effect this purpose, I put together some verses which had 
already appeared in print, and added a few others; hoping 
to form, for my friends at least, what the play-bills term, 
" a piece oi peculiar interest." 

From a sense of inability, I have not attempted any 
high imaginative flights ; but have reined in my Pegasus 
to kpcp a lower and more heatcn track. Now there may 



not appear many objects of interest in a turnpike-road. 
The Common Traveller will see nothing perhaps but the 
sky above him, and the hedges siding him. Yet even on 
a turnpike-road there is, as a certain lady said of the 
Colosseum, {not that in the Regent's Park,) much "food 
for reflection." The Geologist will observe the character 
of the soil, and search the heaps of gravel by the road- 
side for peculiarizing fossils ; the Economist will calculate 
the gains of the toll, from observing the districts which are 
passed through, and at every step find fresh cause to 
admire the national prosperity ; the Alarmist will have his 
fears of upset well-nigh removed by the bowling-green 
levelness of the highway ; the Man of Number will reckon 
up the vehicles that pass, and the multitudes they contain, 
and perhaps find the ratio between those on one road, 
and those on another, and thence infer the relative ex- 
cellencies of the different "turnpikes;" the Surveyor 
will admire the levellings, the cuts, the elevations ; the 
Speculative Philosopher will trace up to their sources the 
results of good order which he sees about him, and 
indulge in visionary ideas of the perfection of states. 
But it is needless to carry this further ; it is clear that 
there may be more things not only in heaven, but also 
on a turnpike-road, than are dreamt of in some men's 



j)hilosophy; tliat one may observe what may not strike 
another, and by pointhig out to the unregarding, convey 
amusement, if not impart instruction. May not then 

I, will you pardon my presumption, I, 
No wit or poet,* 

yet in thinking over some very common affairs of life 
indeed, such as are familiar in our mouths as household 
words, have sometimes hit upon a thought, which may 
appear not entirely worn out to some of my friends ? I 
certainly cannot fail of having recorded many in which 
they are well aware that I have often indulged. So if 
I do not succeed in my first point, I gain at least the 
consolation of being able to present myself before the 
mind of my friends, by arousing their reminiscences on 
topics which have frequently been the subject of our 
conversations. And is not this excuse sufficient ? I hope 
it is, for I have none better to offer. 

And so, having explained my original reasons for 
making the following compilation, allow me now most 
heartily, and with all imaginable good wishes, to dedicate 
to YOU, this — call it what you will, — this "toy of 
mine own in my nonage — the infancy of my muses."f 

* Dr. Franklin. t Beu Jonsoii. 



ERRATA. 

It's a burning shame that you shou'd have slept over this little Piece of 
mine, as you have. You have made several plaguy Blunders. You have 
mistook once or twice in the Letters, twice or thrice in the Periods, and 
above half-a-dozen times in the Comma's. The good-natur'd reader, 
perhaps, will correct them, and spare you — but have a care of the Doctor ; 
for, depend upon it, he'll be upon your bones. Look to your Hits. 

Tlic Life and Conversation of Richard Bentley. 
In Lntin and English, 1712. 



Page 


Line 


Error 


Correction. 


43 


12 


e're 


e'er. 


76 


13 


guilty, 


guilty? 


97 


20 


spouse — concocting 


spouse-concocting. 


13C 


7 


birthright 


birthnight. 



CONTENTS. 



Fag» 

Wit and Wisdom,— a Tale 1 

Good Looks and Good Temper, — a Tale ...... J 

School Eclogues. No. 1 . The Contest ------ 16 

No. 2. Windsor in October, 1832 - - - - IJ 

Correspondence of Harry Broome, Esq. (unpublished) - - - 

Letter 1. — Harry Broome, Esq. to Tobias Ainizen, Esq. - - 3X 

Letter II. — Miss Laetitia Walsingham to Miss Arabella Stubbs S8 

Letter III. — Harry Broome, Esq. to Tobias Amizen, Esq. - ^O 

Letter IV. — The same to the same ------ 44 

Letter V. — Miss Lsetitia Walsingham to Mrs. Amizen - - 46 

Letter VI. — The same to the same ------ 49 

The Wild Fruit (a Ballail). Part '.—The Walk - . - - 51 

Part a.— Uhe Feast - - - - 55 

Part III.— Ihe Grave - - - - 59 

Dramatic Sketches. No. 1, Socrates -------62 

• No. 2. Horatius - 71 

How to Choose a Wife - 80 

How to Choose a Husband ----.-.-86 

My Recantation --.......- ]02 

Sentimental Verses : — 

Introduction - - - - - 111 

I. To Julia 113 

II. To Eliza - - - 114 



CONTENTS. 



III. To Eliza, (bis.)'^ ... _ . - . 

IV. To Clelia -------- 

V. The Forsaken -------- 

On the Authoress of ....... 

Sonnet " On the Last Day of the Year." . . - . . 

Sonnet ---. 

Elegy on Marian _-.-.---- 

The Ghost Story -.-----.. 

Exercises in Rhyme. No. I. Lord Comyn - _ - . 

' No. II. Address to Mademoiselle Taglioni 

Translations from Anacreon. Ode III. - - . - 

Ode IX. 

Sonnet ----------- 

Stanzas, " I am not old, &c." ------- 

Song, " Yes, adieu to thee, fair one, adieu !" - 

" Battles before we meet again " ----- 

" Come with me ! " - 

Impromptu ------- . - - 





ADDITIONAL ERRATA 




PAGE. 


LINE. 


ERROR. 


COBRECTIOM. 


20, 


6 of note, 


Cambridge, 


Eton. 


24, 


5 of text. 


to, 


dele. 


51, 


motto, 


' Aowpd, 


"Aowpn. 


115, 


C, 


your, 


yon. 


154, 


», 


can't, 


cant. 



VERSES, 

WIT AND WISDOM* 



How hard the different taste of man to hit ! 
Some Wisdom love — some bow the knee to Wit: 
So, when old Christmas mounts his holly leaf, 
Some slash the turkey, some attack the beef. 
How happy, then, it falls for human kind 
That here they're separate, and there combined. 
This table groans with beef and turkey stored. 
The single dainty marks the humbler board ; 
Wisdom and Wit in one, in others fit — 
Wit without Wisdom, Wisdom without Wit. 

* Reprinted, with some few alterations, from the Kaleidoscope, No. I. 
p. 11. 

B 



2 WIT AND WISDOM. 

But should two nymphs one swain with ardour strike. 
Equal in beauty, though in mind unlike ; 
How should the youth the happy medium hit 
'Twixt witless Wisdom, and an unwise Wit? 
How should he make that choice of doubt and dread. 
Not which he'd love, but which he'd rather wed ? 
How hard the task, found Pollio, hapless youth — 
Let his experience warn you of the truth. 

Once at a county ball, — no matter where, — 
Young Pollio saw a sweet and lovely pair ; 
O'er every feature playful beauty beamed, 
And each a goddess, not a mortal seemed : 
So well the trap, so well the bait prepared. 
No wonder simple Pollio was ensnared. 
For he, instructed not in Nature's school. 
Though wise in law, in woman was a fool ; 
Though dubious causes crown'd him with success, 
Of man nought knew he, and of woman less. 

With wistful eyes he track'd them through the room, 
And mark'd the varying of their natural bloom. 
With what a grace they thread the tortuous maze. 
Bright as the stars that circle as they blaze I — 
Each beauteous face the inward soul portray'd, 
And heav'nly form a heav'nly mind bewray'd ; 



WIT AND WISDOM. 3 

Yet did a different God eacli fair inspire. 

From this beam'd Wit, from that glow'd Wisdom's fire. 

Still were his eyes attracted to the spot. 
And all seem'd vacancy where they were not. 
Their carriage waits ! — a minute — and they're gone. 
And Pollio stands, in midst of crowds, alone : 
One lovely pair in his fond eyes was all — ' 

As if one couple made a county ball ! 

Seven years passed by — so Pollio would speak, 
Though common mortals call'd the time a week; — 
Seven years passed by — so Pollio would swear, 
Ere he again beheld the charming pair. 

Once he had view'd them with a stranger's eye. 
His tongue was voiceless, though his heart beat high ; 
But now he meets them, as no more unknown. 
And clasps their profFer'd hand within his own. 
How his blood tingles when their palms unite. 
Lovers may guess, but poets dare not write ; 
Ambitious views are given greater scope. 
And adoration is increased by hope. 

That beauteous pair graced Chremes' happy side ; 
More than his wealth, were they his love and pride ; 
From them begun, in them his prayers would end, — 
And Chremes had been Pollio's early friend. 
b2 



4 WIT AND WISDOM. 

Enough — young Pollio loved, and Chremes smiled, — 
Hope bounded forth in expectation wild. 

But, how to choose? for Pollio, nothing loth. 
Both of them loved, and would have married both ; 
Yet different merits stamp each lovely prize, — 
Julia is witty, and sweet Portia wise. 
And as in turn the varied charms invite, 
Now Wisdom conquers, now he yields to Wit. 

Wit sparkled ever with a soul divine. 
Bright as the sparkling of the Gallic wine : 
Wisdom, more stately, still perforce would please, 
Like the full grape-juice of the Portuguese. 
Wit twinkled forth with self-existent blaze, 
As some bright star darts forth its feeble rays : 
Wisdom shone out with calm, reflected light. 
But, like the moon, beam'd silvery and bright. 
Wit teem'd with beauties like the opening May : 
Wisdom glow'd sweetly as the Autumn day. 
Wit was capricious, mirthful, gay, and proud, 
Warm in her praises, in her censures loud : 
Wisdom was calm, yet winning in her ways, 
Niggard in censure, bountiful in praise. 
Wit, to attack more ready than defend, 
Spared not the jest that sacrificed a friend : 



WIT AND WISDOM. 5 

Wisdom woo'd peace, though prompt if justice fired, 
And did to others what herself desired. 
Wit trusted wholly to her first attack : 
Wisdom was certain, though her pace was slack. 
Wit was the cobweb which a breath might sever: 
Wisdom the cable which endures for ever.* 

Long Pollio doubts, and weighs their different worth. 
Till Wit seems heav'n-born. Wisdom sprung from earth. 
His choice is made ; as from an adder's bite 
He shrinks from Wisdom, and he weds with Wit. 

But mark the different fortunes of their life ; 
Here the wise Spinster — there the witty Wife. 

Portia lived happy, though without a lord, 
By friends respected, nay, almost ador'd ; 
Wise in her actions, and untinged by pride, 
She liv'd contented, and contented died. 

Julia flash'd forth, the comet of her hour, 
And quell'd all hearts with fascinating power ; 
Each silly lord her latest bon-mot tells, — 
Her smile is absolute o'er beaux and belles : 
The while glad Pollio laughs, and lauds her sense, 
Nor wots that Wit is haunted by expense. 

* Of course, this is comparatively speaking. 



6 WIT AND WISDOM. 

Pollio grows poor ; his income is not fit 
To keep, in her extravagance, a Wit. 
Pollio grows poor ; 'tis whisper'd o'er the town, 
That "lovely Julia has a single goM'n." 
Pollio grows poor ; and sudden poverty 
Dims the bright lustre of his Julia's eye. 

Her ready wit 'gins day by day to slack, 
Or Pollio's self must weep th' unkind attack : 
'Till, out of patience, he upbraids his wife. 
And mutual railings lead to mutual strife : 
Apart, and sullen, back to back they sit. 
And Pollio damns the hour he chose a Wit. 



11th January, 1833. 



GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 



" How great the diff'rence 'twixt the face and mind I 
How far Good Temper leaves Good Looks behind ! 
How oft beneath the mask of beauty's face, 
A temper lurks devoid of every grace ! 
Learn from the tale my moral muse shall tell. 
How Henry flourish'd, and Parmenio fell."* 

Cynthia, as each admiring beau confess'd, 
In beauty, fashion, and esprit the best — 
Cynthia was courted by the rival pair, 
Good-temper'd Henry, and Parmenio fair. 

How shall my muse in accents weak relate 
The wayward chances of their wayward fate ? 



• These first six lines, which suggested the subject, are due to the pen of 
a friend who was no insignificant contributor to the Kahidoscnpr, from 
which the poem is reprinted, No. IX. p. 321. 



8 GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 

How oft it happ'd Parmenio's beauty fail'd, 

And Henry's temper over all prevail'd ? 

Or Henry's easiness was merely pitied, 

And fair Parmenio at all hours admitted ? 

'Twere all in vain : a woman's skittish mind 

Was never yet in reason's bounds confined ; 

Now fast, now slow, now near it, now far from it, — 

In path it's more eccentric than a comet. 

My verse relates a two-days' hap — the rest 

By nice analogists are quickly guess'd. 

It chanced, Parmenio called one morning soon, 
(That is, three hours had scarce flown by since noon,) 
And "hoped that Cynthia would not be so cruel, 
" ('Twere adding to his latent fire fresh fuel,) 
" As to refuse to hear the last new singer — " 
(And here amidst his hair he twirl'd his finger,) 
" At th' Opera that night ; she knew his box — " 
(And here again his dactyls curled his locks,) 
" His box and him himself at her commands ;" 
(And here he gazed upon his small white hands ;) 
" Besides, Taglioni meant that night to dance;" 
(And here he eyed a looking-glass askance.) 

Cynthia was grieved with the politest sorrow — 
" If it had been last night, or on the morrow : 



GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 

" But yesterday Sir Henry gave his box — 

" And would not be refused — Hark ! some one knocks !" 

" Sir Henry waits below !" Parmenio swears, 
And Cynthia smiles ; — Sir Henry mounts the stairs. 
Parmenio's bow was doubly stiff'd to shew 
How much he deemed the call mal-a-propos. 
Cynthia " was pleased to see him, very pleased;" 
(She saw how lord Parmenio was teased,) 
" Would he believe it? Just too, as he came, 
" My lord and she scarce ceased to speak his name." 

Sir Henry blush'd, — but why, he could not tell, 
And stamm'ring, "hoped her ladyship was well. 
" He'd only called that she might let him know 
" What time his chariot should wait below; 
" His time was hers ; — he hoped she'd not forgot." 

** Oh no ! my dear Sir Henry, that I've not! 
" That is the very thing : Parmenio, here — " 
(Sir Henry winced to find she named the peer) 
" Parmenio here has made a party up 
" To view this evening's ballet, and to sup. 
" Now — but I've promised you, or else I might, 
" Sir Henry, join my lord's soiree to-night." 

'Twas a broad hint she gave; Sir Henry bowd — 
" Perhaps her ladyship had thought him proud, 



10 GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 

" And wish'd him humbled ; he was truly grieved -. 
" He'd dar'd to hope, and he had been deceiv'd. 
" He could not rule her ladyship of course, 
" And was the last of men to think of force. 
" Since lord Parmenio's party pleas'd her more, 
" He humbly took his leave" — and shut the door. 
How Cynthia felt, I may not, cannot tell. 
Or how she trembled as she rang the bell. 

Pass by the Op'ra and the evening sup. 
And view her heart when Phoebus rises up. 

The solemn clock chimed with a dreary tone. 
And foggied sun-beams on her curtain shone. 
She slept — 'twere impious to think she'd snore — 
When Lucy came, and gently smote the door. 
" Who's there? " cried Cynthia. " I, your La'ship, I ; 
" It's just gone twelve ! " was Lucy's quick reply. 
" Lah ! child, how early ! Wait another hour ; 
" I can't rise yet — it's quite beyond my pow'r." 
Lucy departs, and Cynthia tries to doze. 
But she had thoughts that drove away repose ; 
Musings like these kept floating through her brain, 
Though scarce in words she might unfold her pain. 

" Poor Henry ! — Never mind. It serv'd him right ! 
" To think that I should go with him last night I 



GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. U 

" Or else Parmenio is such a fool — 

" I wonder where the deuce he went to school ? 

" Yet, for all that, he'd make a pretty lord, 

" Were not hmiself the idol he adored. 

" The man's a man you don't meet ev'ry where ; 

" And he and I would make a pretty pair. 

" But I forget — the self-conceited brute ! 

" No ! lord Parmenio will never suit ! 

" Beg him a single thing, however slight, 

" He makes no hardship to refuse outright ; 

" And then sir Henry, as I can't forget, 

" Never had heart to say me " No ! " as yet. 

" Last night, too, when I tried him very hard — 

" Well, well ! I wonder, should I play my card ? 

" I wish I had not gone last night ; I wish 

" I'd stay'd at home or gone with Henry — pish ! 

" Harping on Henry and Parmenio still?* 

" I will forget them both ! — yes, that I will ! 

" Heav'ns ! what a task it is to choose a lover ! 

" Would I were married, and the trouble over ! " 

Thus said, and pond'ring on the knight and lord, 
Squeez'd out a briny tear, and slept, and — snored. 

* Poloiiius. Still harping on my daughter. — Hamlet, ii. 2. 



12 GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 

Cynthia had strange-formed dreams : she thought she stood 

Helpless beside a winter-swollen flood ; 

A beauteous statue planted useless near 

Scoif'd all as proudly as the Belvidere. 

She might have perish'd by that senseless lover, 

But a kind rustic brought her safely over ; 

And, as she turn'd to pay her thanks, his face 

Assumed Sir Henry's form and matchless grace ; 

While the dull statue that stood quiet there, 

Put on Parmenio's self-conceited air. 

Another change : reduced to poverty. 
She begged her bread in abject misery. 
One handsome lordling she entreated, said, 
" Go, get you gone ! " and never turn'd his head. 
But a poor beggar, grov'ling in the dust, 
Offer'd to share his last, hard-toil'd-for crust. 

Another change : in the assembly's crowd 
She sat a tyrant, in her censures loud. 
Parmenio heard without a thought her jeers ; 
Sir Henry's eye was filled with starting tears. 
The men converse together as she flies, — 
Still in her ears the sure-borne accents rise. 
Parmenio speaks — " Her hands are dev'lish clammy ! 
*' Not fit to touch ! A stupid creature, damme !" 



GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 13 

But good Sir Henry never rails in turn, 
Though her reproaches all his heart-blood burn; 
Quick he defends her faults, her virtues shews, 
Displays her goodness, and conceals his woes. 

She might have dream'd till now, but Lucy's knock 
(Save to composure a most dreadful shock. 
Up she arose and left her bed at last. 
Not half contented with her dreaming past. 

Adieu to daylight ! Bid the night approach, 
And seat fair lady Cynthia in her coach I 
Roll on, ye wheels, as quick as glides my pen ! 
Cynthia must be at lady Pooh's by ten. 

Gay was the crowd, and dazzling was the light 
That mark'd " The Lady Pooh's Grand Party's night."* 
'Midst the bright brows of beauty gleaming there, 
Cynthia's was brightest, though most marked with care. 
" The lady Cynthia comes ! " Parmenio near, 
Pulls down his wristbands with conceited leer, 
Then slowly lounges up to her to say — 
But lady Cynthia turns another way, 



Thus was it styled next niorniug, 'midst a host 
Of others grander, in the Morning Post. 



14 GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 

Where Henry slinks, apart and 'loof from all, 
The veriest cipher of a cipher ball. 
Their glances meet; and Cynthia deigns to smile; 
Is that the mark of frankness or of guile? 
Frankness ! It is ! It is ! She condescends 
To smile again, as gracefully she bends ! 

Wil Shakspeare, when he wish'd to skip some time, 
Brought in th' old Scytheman's self to speak in rhyme.* 
I, hapless modern, must be quite content 
To wish my readers think six months be spent ; 
And that, since dancing at my lady Pooh's, 
Fools could predict Parmenio would lose. 
Nay, scarce six months the scandal-mongers tarried, 
Ere Henry and her Ladyship were married ; 
As for Parmenio — Oh ! he did not care. 
He gave an extra twirling to his hair. 
Pulled his stays one hole tighter, scarcely swore, 
" Married ! — Fore gad ! a most confounded bore ! "f 

• — " Impute it not a crime, 

To me, or my swift passage, that I slide 
O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried 
Of that wide gap. — Yoiir patience this allowing, 
I turn my glass ; and give my scene such growing. 
As you had slept between." — 

Winter's Tale, iv. 1. — Time, as Chorus. 

+ " Marriage is — 'Gad! a cursed bore!" — The Etoniart, No. III. Peregrine'i 
Scrap Book, No. I. Vol. I. p. 311, 4th. edit. 1824. 



GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER. 15 

Ladies ! my tale is o'er, to you I give. 
To tell how Henry and how Cynthia live : 
Ye, in whose homes good-temper'd husbands dwell, 
Tell all the happiness ye know so well. 

April, 1833, 



SCHOOL ECLOGUES/ 



No. I. THE CONTEST. 

The sun was dipping in the ruddy west. 
And half was hid in Thames's cooling breast, 
Heaven seem'd a palette where all colours mix — 
To cut description short,t the clock struck six. 
When thick as cranes, th' Etonian youth appear'd 
From where the schools their ample frontage rear'd. 
In mien, in stature, high amidst the throng 
Gondolo rush'd, swift as a hart, along ; 
Gondolo, skilled upon the wave to guide 
His oar-urged bark with all a boatman's pride. 
Oft times he used with more than mortal fire 
To tune his voice and strike the sounding lyre. 



• Both these appeared in the Eton Coll. Mag. 

t Every Etonian knows the pleasures of an " after six," when the tasks 
are over for the dav. 



THE CONTEST. 17 

One only rival dared with him contend, 

That very rival chanced that way to wend ; 

And as both onwards from the College pressed, 

Gondolo thus by Crixis was addressed : — 

" Since for to-day we've bid adieu to Greek, 

" Let us the cool retreat of Hatton * seek 

" In that recess, before a copious board, 

" With tarts, and creams, and fruits, and ices stored ; 

" (We'll add, perhaps, a flask of bright champagne, 

" As good as nectar, though by gods unta'en) — 

" In that recess we'll tune our rival lyres 

*' To Love — or whatsoe'er the place inspires. 

" To pay the reck'ning, neither sure will grudge 

" If worsted, and let Sneero be our judge." 

" Agreed ! " Gondolo cries ; " our harps we'll play, 
" And he that's worsted shall the reck'ning pay." 

Soon they and Sneero down at Hatton's sate, 
And thus alternately they sang — and ate. 

GONDOLO. 

Ye who of old on Pindus' top did dwell. 
And favour Orpheus when he went to hell. 
But now, deserting Pindus' snow-clad peak, 
Inspire at Eton, Eton-grammar Greek ; 

* A confectioner opposite Eton College, at whose residence the Eton 
Debating Society held its meetings. 

C 



18 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 

For me expand your Pegasus's wing, 
While in plain English I aspire to sing. 

CRIXIS. 

Pierian, Pindan, and Parnassian train, 
Sicilian Goddesses, inspire my strain ! 
On servile Greece ye've long refused to smile, 
Now spread your favours on Britannia's isle; 
And by the crowns on Ilomer, Virgil placed, 
Let English bards for English rhymes be graced. 

GONDOLO. 

When last with Westminster our boats we tried, 
'Twas I, Gondolo, that the stroke-oar plied : 
We won the race — a fact by all allowed — 
I will not say to whom success was owed. 

" Crown me, ye Muses, and my words make true, 
" Be glory giv'n where glory's justly due. 

CRIXIS. 

Last sweep-stakes, when full twenty boats of speed 
Plough'd the blue wave that rolls by Brocas* mead, 
'Twas I — 'twas Crixis urged the swiftest skifi", 
And came, and saw, and conquer'd in a ivhiff. 
" If glory's giv'n where glory's justly due, 
" Gondolo, Crixis gains the prize — not you." 

* By whose banks the Boat-races usually took place 



THE CONTEST. 19 

GONDOLO. 

When Eton last with Harrow cricket play'd, 
Gondolo through the lengthen'd innings staid. 
'Tis known by all that Eton won the game — 
/ know through whom, though others bear the fame. 
" Crown me, &c." 

CRIXIS. 

When last with Winchester our bats we tried, 
Who was most skill'd th' unerring ball to guide ? 
'Twas I — 'twas Crixis in that game of cricket, 
Who with his certain aim bowl'd down each wicket. 
" If glory's given, &c." 

GONDOLO. 

On each Ash-Wedn'sday,* when, as thick as figs 
On Attic shore, to Eton swarm the pigs, 
Gondolo yet has ne'er been known to fail, 
Off ten plump pigs to dock the curly tail. 
" Crown me, &c." 

CRIXIS. 

As each October brings round Windsor fair. 
With all the fun, row, riot, centred there. 



* This is the day of pig-fair at Eton, when, as every precaution is taken to 
prevent such occurrences as that related in the text, they are of course not 
unfrequent. 

c2 



20 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. "^ 

Crixis has never yet been known to fail. 
To lick the constables, and brave the jail.* 
" If glory's given, &c." 

GONDOLO. 

As yestereve from Chalveyf I return'd, 
My mouth with thirst intolerable burn'd ; 
I view'd a milkmaid tripping o'er the way. 
Tasted her milk, and — kissed her for her pay. 
" Crown me, &c. 

CRIXIS. 

When Windsor folk last met in yonder hall, J 
And gave the hop they dar'd to call a ball, 
Miss Stokes's hand with fervent grasp I wrung. 
And waltz'd, and sigh'd, and — prudence holds my tongue. 
" If glory's given, &c." 

GONDOLO. 

Come tell me this : I will no more contend, 
But own my hopes of victory at end. 

• There is, generally, (or ivas) a kind of " town and gown" row at the 
fair. Once or twice several Etonians were taken up before the Mayor. 
But vide the 2nd Eclogue. 

t A farm near Cambridge, celebrated for its ditch — a favourite place for 
saltatory exertions. 

t The Town Hall. At the tradesmen's balls, gentlemen are studiously 
excluded ; hence it was a great feat in Crixis to get admitted. A ball took 
place at the beginning of the present year (1836), at which, so high does 
party spirit run in Windsor, only thirty persons — and no gentlemen — were 
present. 



THE CONTEST. 21 

What's that at Eton first, though last at home, 
The schoolboy finds not wheresoe'er he roam ? * 

" Obscure, O muse, obscure my rival's view; 

" Give glory here, where glory's justly due." 

CRIXIS. 

Nay, tell me this : I will no more subjoin. 

But freely own the victory is thine. 

What, born on birch trees, broke by Boreas' shock. 

Attends the schoolboy, even to the block ?\ 
" If glory's given where glory's justly due, 
" My riddle's never guess'd by such as you." 

SNEERO. 

Peace, fools ! give o'er ; the vict'ry neither gains ; 
Though each deserves a flogging for his pains. 

• The letter E. 

t The letter B. The " block " alluded to, is that doomed for flagellation. 
The riddle is, however, tolerably incomprehensible — at least I hope so. 

September \7ili, 1832. 



SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 



No. II.— WINDSOR IN OCTOBER, 1832. 

BEING A PARODY ON THE 15tH IDYLL OF THEOCRITUS. 

SCENE I. 

ETON. MALKIN's ROOM AT ANGELo's. 

Malkin in his morning gown reading the Alhamhra, 
Vol. I. which had just then come out. A Lower Boy 
is attempting to versify, and is observed to apply fre- 
quently to a very dirty Gradus. Knocking without. 

CLIFFORD (^without). 

Malkin at home V 

MALKIN. 

Come in, whoever's there ! 



WINDSOR IN OCTOBER, 1832. 23 

Enter Clifford, in a great hurry. 

MALKIN. 

Clifford ! How late ! Here, Lower Boy, a chair ! 
That with the cushion. 

CLIFFORD (throwing himself into it). 
That will do. 

MALKIN. 

Sit down. 
I fear we're much too late to go up town. 

CLIFFORD. 

No ! Lots of time ! — an hour — if you'll make haste, 

Put on your coat, and not a moment waste. 

My stupid tutor kept me plaguy long, 

Look'd o'er each verse, and swore each verse was wrong. 

MALKIN (in a whisper). 
Hush ! not a word before the Lower Boy, — 
Your tutor's fav'rite ! — 

CLIFFORD (Iialf aside). 

Well, I wish him joy ! 
But that same tutor that you wot of — Oh, 
That I might speak about him all I know ! 
Oh ! might I name him, what I dare not name. 

MALKIN. 

Well, and my tutor's just the very same ! 



24 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 

I sent my verses yesternight, and lo ! 
Over he tore 'em, 'cause J did not go !* 

CLIFFORD. 

But come ! on with your coat ! don't stand and linger, 

As if you were afraid to move a finger. 

We '11 go up to Windsor to behold the fair — 

I hear there's something worth the seeing there. 

MALKIN. 

Indeed ! Then tell me all about it, pray. 

CLIFFORD. 

Oh dear ! make haste ! it's not a holiday. 

MALKIN. 

Come, Lower Boy, my coat from yonder draw'rs — 
How slow you are ! " Cats hate to wet their paws." 
Make haste ! — Some water ! — I want water first ! 
See how you spill ! Was Fifth-form e'er so curs'd ! 
You've wet my trousers — what a stupid fool ! 
Stop ! Are your wits abroad a-gath'ring wool ? 
Well, Jove be thank'd, I've wash'd myself at last ! 
Now brush my coat, — come, quick, sir, brush it fast 1 

[^Loiver Boy brusheth coat, and helpeth Malkin to 
superindue the same.'] 

* I despair of making this Eclogue intelligible to any one but an 
Etonian, and therefore shall not make the attempt. Suffice it the above 
is a custom. 



WINDSOR IN OCTOBER, 1832. 25 

CLIFFORD. 

Your Brummel suits you, Malkin, to a T ! 

MALKIN. 

I'm glad you like it. 

CLIFFORD. 

Turn round, let me see ! 
How much ? , 

MALKIN {singetK). 
" Oh, no ! we never mention ill " 

CLIFFORD. 

I'm not inquisitive : — but what a fit ! 

MALKIN. 

Now, Where's my hat? my gloves? There, that will do — 
Go, get from Styles* th' Alhambra, Volume II. 
\_Lotver Boy looketh ruefully at his scrawled paper and 
dirty Gradus, thereby signifying by one expressive look 
that he knoweth not which to dread most, his tutor s 
jaw, his master's thrashing, or Dr. Keates birch.'\ 
And — hang your verses — if I've no employ, 
I'll do them in the evening, Lower Boy. 

\^Exit with Clifford, arm in arm; Lower Boy, with 
a sigh of incredulity, pntteth by his Gradus, reach- 
eth his hat, and commenceth the perilous attenqit 
of shirking Masters all the way up Windsor. \ 

* Mrs. E. Styles keeps a circulating library in Windsor, 



26 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 



SCENE IL 



WINDSOR. 



In the midst of the fair, various shows, booths, ^'c. 
Crowds o/ Etonians a)id " Clods." Clifford atid 
Malkin discovered in the midst of the crowd. 

MALKIN. 

' Gad, what a crowd ! I can't tell how or when 

We can get past this pismire throng of men. 

Much good, O Snowden,* hast thou said and done, 

Since Clode f vacated Windsor's may'ral throne ! 

No gipsies creep about — the nation's curse — 

That promise wealth what time they steal your purse ! 

No woman dreads to lose her fav'rite's locket, 

Nor Eton boy — hands out, man, of my pocket ! 

Ware there ! hilluh ! here comes a whirling gig, 

It just grazed me, and see, it's kill'd yon pig ! 

The horse uprears — the driver will be spilt ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Do hold your tongue — you bawl as you were kilt. 

MALKIN. 

Well, though an Eton boy, I must admit, 
I can't bear rearing steeds, or toads, a bit. 

* The then mayor of Windsor. f The !iile mayor. 



WINDSOR IN OCTOBER, 1832. 27 

l^Enter Smith^owi a show, bearing the inviting title of 
"East India Silk Manufactory." He encoun- 
ter eth Cliffokd.] 

CLIFFORD. 

Smith, from yon show ? 

SMITH. 

Yes ! such a horrid crush! 

« 

CLIFFORD. 

Can we get in ? 

SMITH. 

Aye ! if you shove and push. 
Remove by trials reach'd the Low'r Division, 
And you by trials may obtain admission. 

\%u\iv. passeth on, and is lost in the crowd. 

CLIFFORD. 

Spoke like an oracle— with senseless sense ! 

MALKIN. 

That fellow Smith ! confound his impudence ! 
He's quite old womanly — old women too 
Know if Minerva's stocking's really blue. 

CLIFFORD. 

{^Whose equanimity is suddenly disturbed by a detona- 
ting ball, which explodeth in his face.'] 
Mind where you throw your crackers, or you'll find 
I will not tamely stand until I'm blind. 



28 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 

[A row is perceived commencing in the distance. A rush 
forward is instantly made, which jam^ the crowd so 
thickly together, as to render transmission of cor- 
poreal particles impossible.'] 
A row ! a row ! The constables are there ! 
This is the very spirit of a fair ! 
Come — mind, my man, you've trodden on my foot, 
And that's ill usage I'll not bear, you brute ! 

COUNTRYMAN. 

It warna me, but howsomede'er I'll mind, 
That's if so be ye're civilly inclin'd. 

MALKIN. 

Pooh ! What a crowd ! I cannot stir or move ! 

CLIFFORD. 

We shan't get through unless you mean to shove ; 

And, for the honour of all Eton boys, 

We should be first and foremost in the noise. 

MALKIN. 

All's quiet ! 

CLIFFORD. 

What ? I'm vexed I was not there. 
Well, let's see what we can while at the fair. 

MALKIN. 

Come hither, Clifford, here's a wild beast show 

What say you ? 



WINDSOR IN OCTOBER, 1832. 29 

CLIFFORD. 

Oh ! by all means let us go ! 
They're really in the show-bills greatly pufF'd. 

\_They mount the platform. 

I do not hear them roar 

\^T?iey peep in. 
Oh, pooh ! they're stufF'd ! 
I tell you what, my man, you've got no " nous," 
To put upon Etonians such a chouse. 
I'll go and herald it all through the fair, 
That you're yourself the only live beast there ! 

SHOWMAN. 

I say, my sprigs, this gammon here von't do ! 
If you tells lies about me — 

CLIFFORD. 

Which are true — 

SHOWMAN. 

If you goes talking so, young chap, I swear 
I'll have ye up this jifFy 'fore the raay'r. 

CLIFFORD. 

I'd like to see you ! Touch us if you dare ! 

MALKIN. 

What ! venture thus an Eton boy to treat. 
Who fears no man on earth but Dr. Keate ! 



30 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 

SHOWMAN. 

Veil, jist be off, that's all — for this I'll swear, 
It's hunfair treatment, this here, for a fair. 

[Malkin and Clifford descend. They hear in the 
distance a continued stream of pulpit eloquence, 
and hasten thither. '\ 

MALKIN. 

Ha ! ha ! Come Clifford, for I yonder see 
An auctioneer — as sure as fate some spree ! 
Let's view what bargains wv^ one may have, 
t/wcutting knives, and razors not to shave ; 
Real silver plated, and such trump'ry trash. 
With which he hopes to catch the country cash. 
As far as this I hear his voice arise — 
Let's go and list to his unblushing lies. 

[They approach the auctioneee. He is a young man, 
with a great gift of the gab, and standeth in the plat- 
form in front of his cart, puffing off his vendibles.^ 

auctioneer.* 
Come buy ! come buy! you ne'er saw in your life 
A piece of better steel than this here Icnife ! 



* This is an actual character, and an actual speech, versified as nearly 
iis may be. 



WINDSOR IN OCTOBER, 1832. 31 

A razor hedge, a downright saddle back, 

A needle point ; — 'twould shave 'un in a crack. 

Now going, going, only eighteen-pence, 

A bargain for a man " with cash and sense."* 

Now, sev'nteen, sixteen, fifteen — are ye willing ? 

Well, take it then for fourteen, or a shilling. 

A shilling ! but a shilling ! Such a blade ! 

What, no one venture — are you all afraid ? 

No buyers here ? — no buyers coming nigh ? — 

Well then, li you won't buy, I'W pass it by.\ 

Now here's a bargain as you never saw — 

Just buy this watch — you'll never go to law ! 

No, that you won't, for I should like to catch 

The thief that's fool enough to steal this watch — 

He'd put it back again within a minute ; 

For look you here, you see no guts is in it ! 

A pretty case, that with a spring unlocks. 

For sniffers snuff, — for chawers baccy, box. 

Will no one buy ? Five guineas or six — pence. 

Sixpence ! Come, gemmen, that's not much expence. 

I had a watch, bought by a man I knowed. 

As never stopped — because it never goed. 

* " As any man would buy with cash and sense." — Peter Pindar. 
t His own genuine pun. 



32 SCHOOL ECLOGUES. 

This here fine watch to go will never fail, 

When it is fastened to a mad dog's tail ! 

No buyers ? Well then, if you won't, you won't ; 

No force ! if you don't like to take it — don't ! 

Mayhap you thinks I wish to sell you trash. 

And that I corned because I wanted cash ? 

But, if you will believe me, you will find, sir, 

I wanted that afore I comed to Windsor ! 

Now look here, gemmen, here's a slap-up castor 

MALKIN. 

'Gad, Clifford, we must cut — I see a master !* 

CLIFFORD. 

This way, this way ! No, there is Doctor Keate ! 

Make haste ! make haste ! let's up St. Alban's street. 

And in the best way cover our retreat. 

We shall be late — he sees us — fast ! fast ! fast ! 

Well, now we're safely out of it at last ! 

We won't return — for, though 'twas pretty full, 

I never saw a Windsor fair so dull. 

• The rout here described, given by Dr. Keate, masters & Co., actually 
occurred at this fair, of which my verse gives a very fair account. 

October 24</i, 1832. 



CORRESPONDENCE 

OF 

HARRY BROOME, ESQUIRE, 

(UNPUBLISHED.) 



LETTER I. 



HARRY BROOME, ESQ. TO TOBIAS AMIZEN, ESQ. 

On the back of an old mathematical paper 

I have scribbled these lines — by the light of a taper, 

Which burns in my cell, that's nor freezing nor damp, 

And serves me as well as Demosthenes' lamp. 

You know, my dear Toby, our studious way, 

We ne'er write a letter but when we 're distrait ; 

So finding naught else in the world I could do, 

In order to 'scape from the devils hight blue, 

I bethought me I'd scrawl an epistle to you. 

And what's more astonishing still, you'll allow, 

I have something to write about! — What think you now? 



34 CORRESPONDENCE OF HARRY BROOME, Esq. 

But have patience ! have patience ! have patience ! have 

patience ! 
Said the doctor to one under fierce operations ; 
She replied — for the very conception had shocked her — 
"'Tis you that yv&ni patients — not I, my dear doctor !" 
But this by the bye — you perceive by this one. 
That I still am addicted sometimes to a pun. 
But yet 'tis a lux'ry I seldom indulge in, 
Though my humour will want now and then a divulg- 
ing: 
Just as ladies, by stays pinched all night like the devil, 
Delight without stays in the morning to revel; 
Or the cat-transformed woman that's famed in the fable, 
Is glad to hunt mousey that's under the table : 
Or in fact — for I've similes got by the score. 
But I spare you the rest — and you won't ask for more. 

Now to business — or rather to pleasure — 'tis that 
Makes this business to lads such as us come so pat. 
You must know — 'tis a secret — so swear with an oath 
It shall ne'er be reveal'd, but kept silent by both. 
Well, after this long, solemn, dim preparation, 
You'll be standing on tiptoe of awed expectation : 
I should like much to make curiosity stronger — 
But I'm mercy itself, and will plague you no longer. 



LETTER I. 35 

I swear by the Powers below and above, 
By that sweetest of gods who e'er chhnes m with "dove," 
And by every thought that gave poet a shove, 
By the eyes of my charmer herself — I'm in love ! 
Yes, in love ! — and oh, too, with so charming a girl ! 
How? and when? 'Twas a waltz set me all in a whirl. 
Oh, believe me — I would not for worlds be uncivil, 
If you say waltzing's harmless, you lie like the divel ; 
For, let on each side what you will be all said, 
There's nothing like waltzing to turn a girl's head. 
Oh, 'tis villainous ! — Cupid in then puts his arrow. 
There, atween heart and heart, a space deucedly narrow ; 
And then as a deadlier weapon enlisted. 
At every turn to a corkscrew 'tis twisted ; 
And so deep in the heart-strings it fixes its twining. 
Without the poor victim the matter divining. 
That when the two wretches give over the hop. 
Drawer Cupid just pulls — out comes heart with a pop ! 
And so I lost mine — and I ne'er shall forget it, — 
'Twas so painful, yet pleasing — I cannot regret it. 

By the bye, here's a problem would puzzle the Attics, 
But gives universality to mathematics : — 
When a man becomes married, 'tis said with a laugh. 
That his wife is the poor wretch's much better half; 
d2 



36 CORRESPONDENCE OF HARRY BROOME, Esq. 

Ergo, married man is, without any detraction, 

Like a tailor-man, tho' not so vulgar — a fraction. 

But when bachelor, sans a fair helpmate, he'd spoon it, 

He's a single man, singular, ergo an unit. 

Therefore wife is quantity, which, when obtained. 

Makes a man so much smaller by all he has gained. 

This proves to me, viewing connubial strife, 

We a negative quantity* find in a wife. 

Ain't it good ? I'm imformed that professors, not vext 

With a wife, mean to set it in Senate-House next; 

And add, " You will prove, by the law of least action, f 

That a \acAox plus wife is a decimal fraction. 

But, 'od rot mathematics ! so tiresome and stupid 
To one who seeks honours from graduate Cupid, 
(Who e'er, to the Proctor's alarm and surprise. 
Wears his hood, not behind him, but over his eyes,) 
And who pants to become, by his arch-skill in darts. 
Not a Bach'lor of Arts, but a Bach'lor of Hearts. 

Oh, lud ! what a bad hand I make at a story — 
Here's a letter, and scarcely a word of 't before ye ! 



• For the benefit of ladies, who of course are entirely ignorant of con- 
jugal negativeness, we beg leave to inform them, that the addition of a 
negative quantity is equivalent to the subtraction of the same quantity 
considered as positive, and that in the above case, a wife, being "the 
better half," always leaves the man minus. 

t A mechanical principle. 



LETTER I. 37 

Three sides are well cramm'd, and I'm much at loss — 
As I wouldn't for worlds on such subjects be avss, 
As young ladies are ever to ladies inditing, 
Eight pages at one sitting down always writing ; 
•' For two of a trade," says the proverb — and then, 
Dear things ! they can never write cross to the men. 
I am much at a loss, as I said, to find room. 
To say I am yours until death, 

Harry Broome. 



LETTER II. 



MISS L^TITIA WALSINGHAM TO MISS ARABELLA STUBBE. 

Dear Bella, I'm all in a fuss and flustration — 

Such a thing ! — Why, my dear, I have had a flirtation ! 

Oh, it makes all my finger-tips ting with delight — 

So charming a man — so the ton — so polite ! 

Such a waltzerl — Ah ! ne'er mind my prim little aunts, 

I tell you, a waltz is the only good dance ! — 

And he looked at me — so — oh ! so earnest a gaze — 

But I'll tell you it all, or you'll be in amaze. 

Mamma took me down to the Cam county ball. 
Though you know that Papa didn't wish it at all ; — 
What a sweet man he is ! — I mean him, not Papa — 
Well we went, for you know he must yield to Mamma ! 
There were crowds — so delightful! our panels were 

scratched, — 
'Twere no matter, were that all the mischief was hatched; 



LETTER II. 39 

But my heart, I'm afraid, is as scratched as the panel, 

For you know, dearest Bella, I can't use the man ill 

But I've missed th' introduction — he says, 'twas by chance — 
(I know better — dear creature ! he wanted to dance ;) 
He says 'twas by chance that he grazed by my toe, — 
He apologised, sighed, in despair, and bowed low, — 
Talked of awkwardness, made such wM-awkward advances, 
I couldn't refuse him for one of the dances. 
And then, Bell, could it be — nay, or was it our faults, 
That the dance chanced to be a delicious soft waltz '? 
However it be, my poor heart is unhinged — 
Pretty flutt'rer ! be still ! I'm afraid thou art springed ! 
But I fear 'tis too dreadful to think yet to marry, 
And settle — or else — I could — Oh, the dear Harry ! 

Now, my sage Arabella, I fancy I see 
Your face looking longer and longer at me ! 
That Laetitia Walsingham, Walsingham Hall, 
Should become such a giddy girl, won't do at all. 
I foresee, if I ventured to finish the sentence, 
Arabella would frown, and would drop my acquaintance. 
But as she can't help it, and wouldn't be rude. 
She thinks she had best in the middle conclude : 
And hoping to be all her Bella can wish her, 
She is hers — as she can't yet be his — 

Anne L/etitia. 



LETTER III. 



HARRY BROOME, ESQ TO TOBIAS AMIZEN, ESQ. 

What destruction to reading it is, I can prove. 

For a poor wretch at College to fall into love. 

He scrawls verses — or sighs — and would fain urge his 

suit on, 
But, alas ! ne'er once thinks of the sections of Newton : 
He makes to the sun, moon, and stars protestation. 
And ne'er once remembers their dull gravitation : 
Attractions* for him no attraction can find. 
His difF'rencesf are with indifF'rence resigned : 
In short, when he's copying his manuscript out. 
Love words make with grave words so furious a rout, 



* Tlic mathematical calculation of the attraction of bodies, arising from 
their mutual gravitation. 

+ The calculus of differences, whether infinitesimal, as in the Differential 
Calculus, or finite. 



LKTTER III. 41 

E'en collators, that accents from manuscripts glean, 

Could never divine what on earth he could mean. 

Don't suppose for an instant I caricature — 

I have proof in myself — so of course I am sure ; 

But lest you should doubt, here's a proof that's convincing, 

You will not find so good Airy, Peacock, or Vince in. 

" University Scholarships' Examination. 
Harry Broome — No. 1, — [Oh, my love! botheration !] 
Describe — [aye, there's none can describe my sweet 

charmer, 
She is fair as] a sphere — [sure nobody could harm her.] 
. • . Q = R* — \^Ah ! knew /but my ewe.'] 
The resultaTit o' th' couples f that act two and two — 
[Oh ! how would my heart and my soul be exultant. 
If my love could in her's find a dear sweet resultant — 
What a couple we'd make] — then we find the resistance 
Will vanish, because 'tis at infinite distance. 
[Were my dear girl's resistance at that same infinity, 
Gad ! I'd cut both the papers and College of Trinity !]" 

* In plain terms, "Therefore Q equals 11." 

f The single force which would produce the same effect as any number 
of others, is called their resultant. Two equal forces acting in parallel 
lines and in opposite directions, but not on the same point, are called a 
couple. Calculation gives their resultant equal to nothing, acting at a 
distance of infinity. 



42 CORRESPONDENCE OF HARRY BROOME, Esq. 

But enough, my dear Toby — prove truth is a liar, 

But ne'er prove to me that my soul did not fire — 

Did not fire — you observe that I use the imperfect, 

And conclude, out of hand, that I've met with a surfeit : 

Now 'tis not quite a surfeit — but rather as when. 

At some great city banquet some fat aldermen, 

Who have asked for the turtle soup, whimper and whease, 

At finding their turtle turn out to be pease. 

Now I know you're amazement and mere curiosity. 

And so in sheer mercy I'll quick shoot a gloss at ye. 

'Tis enough — both to know and to tell — 'tis enough. 
Dreams and men are both made of the same flimsy stuff. 
I have loved, but my pride comes and gives me a shove. 
And I boldly declare that no more can I love — 
No, no more — for the girl whom I doted upon, 
Is — a — daughter — so fame says — of Tim Dickinson. 
(You know without doubt who this Dickinson is, 
And may guess all my fears, and my dread of a quiz : 
Should you not — let me give you this slight information. 
Had we married — my gyp might have been my relation.) 
Oh! she is — for I have't from authority good — 
My dear friend little Wiggum at once understood — 
" What she!" exclaimed he with the truest surprise, 
" That girl with the beautiful neck, waist, and eyes ! 



LETTER III. 4.3 

" You cannot be serious — tricks apart, Broome, 

" You know her as well as all else in the room." 

And when I protested I'd never beheld her — 

" Not know," he exclaimed, " Dicky's modern Griselda? 

" The poor patient Grizzy, that half of the year, 

" With uncle, the lawyer, acts lady, as here, 

" And the other, helps wash up plates, tea-cups, and all, 

" With mamma, the bedmaker of Catherine Hall."* 

" Oh ! enough !" I exclaimed; for I felt, let me tell ye. 

Queer and shakey, as if I'd become calf's-foot jelly. 

But I've done with it, done with it, done with it, done 

with it, 
I only still wonder I'd ever begun with it. 
Hence, away with the thought, I am free as the air, 
As a widow just left of some thousands the heir ; 
As a ward come of age — as a fool at his mad tricks, 
Or an Irishman, faith, on the day called St. Patrick's ! 
And so heaven keep you from cold and from rheum. 
Yours, no woman's — I thank heav'n for't — 

Harry Broome. 



• It is my belief that Wiggum did not mean to insinuate tliat there was 
only one bedmaker at Catherine Hall. 



LETTER IV. 



HARRY BROOME, ESQ. TO TOBIAS AMIZEN, ESQ. 

So you've married Miss Stubbe ! — Ah ! my boy, I 

remember 
The letter I wrote you last dismal November 
About her sweet friend — I regret, so regret it — 
Forget it, dear Toby, 1 prithee forget it. 
I have since been told all — by the sweetest of tongues, 
With the sweetest of breaths, from the sweetest of lungs, 
With the sweetest of words, culled from out of the 

sweetest. 
Yes, sweetest, that word to express it is meetest. 
I have owned all, confessed all, been pardoned it all, 
By Laetitia Walsingham, Walsingham Hall ; 
And the god who in archery shooteth so arch, 
Will unite us — tinite us .' — what rapture ! — this March. 



LETTER IV. 45 

But I'll tell you no more — there's a far better teller 
Will tell all the rest to your own Arabella ; 
So believe me, until I'm the happiest groom. 
The happiest man in the world, 

Harry Broome. 



LETTER V. 



MISS LiETITIA WALSINGHAM TO MRS. AMIZEN. 

CA Continuation of the last.) 

Yes, it's true, every word that is writ by dear Harry, 
I am going like you, my dear Bella, to marry : 
You know when one sets an example so good. 
That all who could follow it, follow it would. 
It was all a mistake — it was dreadful indeed. 
My heart most began at the treatment to bleed ; 
You can't thi7ik, dear, in what a disorder it put me. 
When Harry the very next party dead cut me. 
It was terrible, dear, the effect of the scandal, 
Heav'n knows that I ne'er gave to gossip a handle : 
But, now it is over, I must be so vicious. 
To say it makes making-up doubly delicious. 

My dear Harry is staying at Walsingham HaU, 
Such a fav'rite with Pa', and with Ma', and with all,- 
And this comes of waltzing at Cam county ball. 



LETTER V. 47 

Now, Bella, confess that, with all its great faults. 

There is nothing that's equal to dancing a waltz ; 

And then — but there's Harry, I vow, — looking over ! 

Well now, is n't it, Harry, the thing for a lover ? 

" O yes ! " ('tis he writes) — " but ne'er be it forgot. 

Though for lovers it is, yet for husbands 'tis not." — 

Why I vow, my dear Harry, that's rude and outrageous. 

And I'd quarrel, if quarrels were not deemed contagious ; 

But now sweetest love must for ever absorb us, 

And be that as contagious as — cholera morbus — 

O dear Bell, what a simile ! — shocking, I vow ! 

But it slipped out — I really can't well conceive how. 

But enough of this — Mrs. Amizen — oh dear ! 

To think that mi/ marriage is really so near ! 

How d'youthinkit willsound — "iHfrs. Broome ! "pretty well? 

And how like i/ou marriage, my own dearest Bell, 

But ne'er mind, for I know that whatever you say. 

Jam fixed, and shall follow my own foolish way. 

To be sure, my aunt Deborah seemed extra starch. 

When she knew 'twas to take place so soon as in March ; 

And she talked of propriety — waiting — no hurry, 

Till I felt red and hot as an East Indy curry. 

And my aunt Bab declared, it was really quite shocking. 

And then went on coolly with knitting a stocking. 



48 CORRESPONDENCE OF HARRY BROOME, Esq. 

My aunt Margaret, too, looked to heaven and sighed, 

So did /—not to heaven— 'twas Harry I eyed ! 

But these you know, Bell, are those old-fashioned aunts, 

Who at all times object to an innocent dance ; 

And if I avow'd all my fondness for waltz, 

I verily think they would ring for their salts. 

Oh, I wish that my memory, true as my heart. 

Would allow me to write to you every part 

Of that dear sweet enticing prolonged conversation, 

That, 'midst blushing and tears, ushered in declaration. 

But as I can't give 't as I wish it, complete, 

I won't give it at all, not to spoil you a treat. 

But will whisper you all that I dare when I meet. 

Yours, Lastitia Walsingham — till in its room, 

1 hope to subscribe myself, yours, — 

Letty Broome. 



LETTER VI. 



the same to the same. 

Dearest Bella, — 

All's over — and Hymen's soft tether, 
At the voice of our parson, has bound us together. 
I've just snatch'd an instant, while changing my dress. 
Though all in a way and a flurry, you'll guess ; 
For Harry is ready — a carriage and four 
Is awaiting our coming, and stands at the door. 
Dear ! there's Harry stepp'd in — "In a moment, my love! 
" Will you finish my letter?" 

"Of course," says he, "dove !" 
How pretty that sounds ! don't it, Bella my dear ? 
So I'll leave off, and leave him a postscript in here. — 
Yours, the happiest blossom that e'er came to bloom 
In the garden of nature, — 

LyETITIA BllOOME. 

E 



50 CORRESPONDENCE OF HARRY BROOME, Esq. 

P.S {By Me. Broome.) 

Dear Toby — it's done — that great problem of life, 
' Shall a man live a bach'lor, or take him a wife ? ' 
I've begun to resolve — when resolved to begin — 
And am fairly involved all the synthesis in.* 
May our union so happy and constant appear, oh ! 
That the diff'rence^ may ever be put down at zei'o! 
You perceive there's a mighty distinction between 
What at Cambridge we seek, and in life what we mean. 
At Cambridge — a bachelorship is renown. 
And a wranglership brings to our labours a crown. 
But we shrink from the mere thought of bach'lor in life, 
And who would a wrangler be found with his wife? 
My honey-woow love now attracts at the door. 
But would not a son% oh! attract me much more? 
Ah! then may it prove, by the laws of attraction, 
An annual equation of happy distraction. 

• Synthesis, a species of mathematical reasoning, properly signifies 
union, as analysis signifies untying. 

+ The diflference of a constant quantity is zero. (See note, page 40.) 

I Attraction depending upon the magnitude of the attracting body, the 
attraction of the sun is of course greater than that of the moon. The 
disturbance in the moon's orbit, which depends upon the variation in its 
distance from the sun, owing to the elliptic form of the earth's orbit, is 
called the annual equation. 

September, 183d. 



THE WILD FRUIT. 

A BALLAD, IN THREE PARTS, 

" Aowpd owpu. — Soph. Ajax. 



PART L— THE WALK. 



Auf einmal, o Entzucken ! 



Entdeckt die schonste Frucht sich seinen gier'gen Blicken. — 

Wicland's Obernn. 



Bright and warm was the autumn sun 

That lightly danced o'er the golden lake, 
And merrily, merrily echoed the brake 
To the song that its cheerful denizens tuned, 
Through its shades of yellow green leaves festoon'd, 
And never were weary, ne'er sought to have done. 
When, brighter and purer and softer than all. 
Fair Mary came forth from old Micklesod Hall. 
e2 



52 THE WILD FRUIT. 

Hast never seen Mary of old Micklesod ? 

Then thou ne'er hast seen, by the holy rood. 
The purest thing of fair and good 
That ever compassionate Heaven sent, 
To show to the sons of punishment 
The form they have lost — "the image of God !" 
To see, was to be a bounded thrall 
To the beauty of Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

Her bow'r-maids follow'd where'er she stray'd; 
By the banks of the golden sunlit lake, 
Thro' the leafy maze of the vocal brake ; 
Some pluck'd the wild flowers, the summer heat 
Had still left to lie at old Autumn's feet ; 
Some loved to sport in the welcome shade ; 
But to shew most love was the strife of all 
Who followed fair Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

So have I read in an ancient book,* 

A goddess who held the foremost rank 

• Terra tribus scopulis vastum procurrit in aequor, 
Trinacris, a positu nomen adepta loci ; 
Grata domus Cereri. * * 

* • » » 

Filia, consuetis ut erat comitata puellis, 

Errabat nudo per sua prata pede. 
Valle sub umbrosa locus est, aspergine multa 
Uvidus ex alto desilientis aquae. 



PART I— THE WALK. S3 

'Mong the beauties of heaven, on Sicily's bank, 
Plucking wild flow'rs 'mid maidens gay, 
Wander'd forth on an autumn's day, — 
But ne'er could pagan goddess look. 

Though brighter than pagan goddesses all, 

So bright as Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

List ! a laugh, soft and shrill, rings light on my ear ! 
'Tis Mary cries, as a child in joy 
To discover a new, unexpected toy : 
" Maidens, the glory's mine, by my faye, 
" Of finding the fairest thing to day. 
" Search ye, search ye, both far and near, 
*' Not so lovely a thing will ye find in all 
" The wide domains of old Micklesod Hall." 

Tot fuerant illic, quot habet natura colores, 

Pictaque dissimili flore nitebat humus. 
Quam simul aspexit; " Comites, accedite" dixit, 

"Et mecum plenos flore referte sinus." 
Praeda puellares animos prolectat inanis 

Et non sentitur sedulitate labor. 
Haec iniplet lento calathos e viniine textos : 

Haec greniium, laxos degravat ilia sinus. 
Ilia legit calthas; huic sunt violaria curae, 

Ilia papavereas subsecat ungue comas. 
Has, hyacinthe, tenes ; illas, amarante, moraris ; 

Pars thyma, pars casium, pars melitoton amant. 
Plurima lecta rosa est, et sunt sine nomine flores. 

Ipsa crocos teneres, liliaque alba legit. 

Or. Fasl. iv. 419. 



54 THE WILD FRUIT. 

Then forth she displayed in her Uly hand, 
A fruit that blush'd, as in ectacy 
To be with that hand in company. 
" See here, see here, tho' the envious thorn, 
" On wliich this lovely thing was born, 
" Would have held back its treasure from my command, 
" Yet I plucked it for Roland, the bravest of all, 
" That feasts this eve in old Micklesod Hall." 



PART II.—THE FEAST. 



Hier zittert mir der Griffel aus der Hand ! 
Faul, durch und durch, und gallenbitter war 
Die schone Frucht! — Wielaiid's Obcron. 



The evening came, and the feast was spread ; 

Loud was the mirth, the song and tlie shout ; 
The merry retainers were drinkers stout. 
The can ne'er rested, and every draught 
Was "to the new-married" gaily quaff'd ; 
For that eve by the holy Prior was wed, 
The bold knight Roland, the bravest of all, 
To Mary, fair Mary of Micklesod Hall. 



56 THE WILD I'RUJT. 

The feast wax'd high, and the honour'd pair 
Whose souls, already johied above 
By a chain of everlasting love, 
Had by Holy Church been joined below 
By a chain no mortal could overthrow ; 
Gazed eye on eye, and reflected there 
Alone beheld the festive brawl, 
That honoured fair Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

Till at last fair Mary turned gently round, 

And gave to a maiden whose boast and pride 
Was e'er to be at her mistress' side, 
A look of love that spake her wish : 
She goes, and brings on a silver dish 
The fruit that Mary that morning had found, 
And reserved for Roland, the bravest of all, 
As a bride-gift from Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

She takes the dish from her maiden's hand ; 

All voices are husli'd, not a breath is heard : — 
" Sir Roland, behold, I have kept my word ; 
" I promised my love should figured be 
" hi the gift I brought this day to thee ; 
" Bnt nought did 1 know in my command 

" Which could figure to Roland, the bravest of all, 
" The deep love of Mary of Micklesod Hall 



PART 1 1. -THE FEAST. c 

"This morning I chanced with my maidens round, 
"To stroll thro' the meads by the placid lake, 
" And cull the wild flowers in the lonely brake; 
" There found I this fruit on a prickly thorn, 
" As if 't had been there on purpose born 
" To be by a wandering maiden found, 

" That sought for an emblem might figure to all 
" A love deep as Mary's of Micklesod Hall. 

" Our fathers were foes, as the prickly thorn 
" Is foe to who dares its rights impugn, 
" But a maiden's softness knew full soon 
" How she with gentleness might win 
" The noble fruit it guarded within : 
" That fruit was our love, and our father's scorn 
" Has yielded, like this, to the gentle thrall 
" Of Mary, thij Mary of Micklesod Hall." 

Sir Roland is sunk on his bended knee : 

" Fair being, that Heaven on earth sent down 
" As its work of creation's most noble crown, 
" I accept of thy gift and I part with it never 
" Till my life-blood and body in death do sever. 
" For this fruit that I eat, my blood will be, 

" And through my heart flowing, will keep it in thrall 
" To Mary, my Mary of Micklesod Hall." 



58 THK WILD FRUIT. 

Who is he that rudely parts the crowd? 
That hastens with eager uncertain gait, 
As though he were augur of dismal fate, 
To reach fair Mary and Roland brave ? — 
'Tis Mark, the Hermit of Saxon's grave. 
The hermit has come from his cave's dark bound, 
To witness bold Roland, the bravest of all, 
Wed him sweet Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

He hath reach'd the Knight, and half of the fruit 

Hath snatched from the young man's eager hand, 
And thrown it far 'midst the wond'ring band. 
" Nay, frown not, but weep that I'm come too late 
" To save thee, alas ! from thy early fate. 
" Fair was the l)lossom had death for its root ! 
" For Roland, bold Roland, the bravest of all, 
" Is poison'd by Mary of Micklesod Hall !" 



PART III.— THE GRAVE. 



Von ilcin Domi.' 

Schwer und ban;,' 

Tont die Glocikc 

Craligesang ! — Scliiller's Lied t'on tier Gloekr. 



A bell's slow toll through the cold night air 
Strikes gloomily sad upon my ear. 
And tells of woe, of death, of fear. 
A procession moves through the abbey gate 
With a solonni step like the march of fate : 
While the mournful chaunt of the requiem there 
Proclaims that they carry beneath yon pall 
The knight, wedded and poison'd at Micklesod Hall 



60 THE WILD FRUIT. 

The grave is reached, and the priests stand round, 
And slowly down the fatal chest 
Is laid upon earth's open breast ; 
Not a single eye of all stood near, 
But was dimmed with a tributary tear, 
As they heard the harsh grating, freezing sound 
Of the ropes that slid o'er the chest that held all, 
All to lost Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

Hast ever bent o'er a new-dug grave. 

That yawn'd for thy youth's most cherished, 
A friend, a lover, mother dead? 
Hast ever heard on the coffin -lid, 
The falling earth that the coffin hid. 
And felt all was gone, nought was left to save? 
Oh ! then might'st thou guess how that funeral 
Would have heart-stricken Mary of Micklesod Hall. 

A monk who had watched with a placid eye 

While they lowered Sir Roland to the grave, 
And ne'er gave signs of living, save 
By a deep convulsive shiver, 
By a cheek that did blanche and quiver, 
Sank in the grave with a single sigh ; 
And there lay still and motionless all, 
As the spouse of Mary of Micklesod Hall. 



PART 111— THE GRAVE. 61 

A shudder runs through the sorrowing crowd — 
They raise up the body with tender care, 
When, lo ! from the cowl flows bright golden hair, 
And the sleeve that falls back, a fair hand doth disclose. 
Paling in death from its hue of rose ; 
And a Hermit cries, 'midst the priests aloud, 
" Death hath claimed each as his rightful thrall ! > 
" Alas for Mary of Micklesod Hall !" 



3lst October, 1836. 



DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

No. I. 



SOCRATES.* 

SCENE THE OUTSKIRTS OF ATHENS. 

Enter Philo, a Lacedamonian. 



Beautiful Athens! In stern Lacedamon 

I scarce had known thy glories, True, men spake 

Of mighty walls, and triple harbourage, 

Of streets, of palaces, and hills of temples ; 

But thy reality as far transcends 

Common report, as doth the Heav'n of Heav'ns 

Transcend the earthly heart of man's conception. 

Magnificent ! There the expansive sea 

Hushes upon her breast those babes of ocean, 

* Reprinted from the Kaleidoscope, No. VIII. p. 281. 



SOCRATES. 63 

Yon fair tall ships of Athens; there arise, 
Topping the clouds, th' Acropolis' white columns. 
Where Jove and Pallas sit in earthly heav'ns : 
Between are strewed, what once were massive walls. 
The mighty ruins of a mighty fabric, 
Marks of the Spartan steel 'gainst Athens' gold. 
How my heart pants with joy ! The port is reach'd 
Within the mooring. Not that these high towers 
Or mighty palaces were Philo's search. 
Here wisdom rears her tent ; it is a dwelling 
Worthy of wisdom, though a barbarous cottage, 
Built on a rugged mountain-side, exposed 
To the inclement air, ill-built, ill-favour'd : 
Dwelt there but wisdom, were in Philo's eyes 
More glorious than Athens' self without her. 
Here dwells the greatest of philosophers, 
Whose modesty disdains the pride-born name* 
Of sophist, and content with real wisdom. 
Calls himself but lier lover, not possessor. 
Oh! how I long to listen to him, hang 
With rapture from his lips, while they distil 
The precepts of a happy life, the wisdom 

* TO fiiv aro(liui',<Z 4>at^/o£, KaXttv tfxoiye /xtya tivai ooKtl kuI 
dtiS fxovw irpsTTtiv TO ci I'i (f)iK6(TO(pov )')' ToiovTov Ti /xnWov Tt 
dv aiiTw dpfxoTTOi kuI efxntXsa-Ttpwi eX"'^- — Plat. Phmd. 278. D. 



54 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

Of gods ! But one thing hinders me, or else 

This moment I would grasp his knees. Here comes 

A citizen, I will enquire of him. 

[Enter Crito, crossing sorrowfully. 
I prithee, sir, if I break not your thoughts, 
Would'st tell me, since I'm here but newly come 
From Sparta, strange to Athens and her streets, 
Where lives great Socrates ? 

CRITO. 

Lives Socrates? 

PHILO. 

Aye, where doth he abide? where lives he? 

CRITO. 

Lives he? 

PHILO. 

Thou echo'st me ! * Is't strange I should enquire 
Where Athens' greatest glory lives ? 

CRITO. 

Heav'n ! — lives ! — 
Ask him, {^pointing off,'] and mark his word&. Spartan, 
farewell. 

[Exit. 

* By Heav'n he echoes me, 
As if there were some monster in his thought 
Too hideous to be slicwn. 

Othello, Act. iii. 5c. 3. 



SOCRATES. 65 

PHILO. 

Strange 'haviour. Is this Athens, polish'd Athens ! 
Rude Lacedasmon, though she be uncouth, 
Would stop and list the traveller's demand, 
And though a short, return a courteous answer. 

[Enter Anytas, observing Crito. 

ANYTAS. 

Yonder goes Crito — he avoided me ! 

His snubb'd-nose master's dead, so I forgive him. 

PHILO. 

I'll be more brief this time. I prithee, friend, 
Since I'm a stranger, where lives Socrates ? 

ANYTAS, (confused.) 
Lives who ? Why ask'st thou me ? I'm not his keeper. 

PHILO. 

I merely asked a simple question, sir. 
Is't strange, that one but lately come to Athens 
Should ask for hhn, the chief philosopher, 
Stamped by the Delphic voice, the wisest man ? * 

ANYTAS, (recovering himself.') 
True, true ; I had forgot, I prithee pardon. 
What is your pleasure? 

'AvSpwu Si Tra'i/Toji/ 2(OK|0aTi|s (ro^ioruTof, 



66 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

PHILO. 

Sir, in one thing join 
My duty and my pleasure : 'tis to be 
A follower of him, whom but to follow 
Would not disgrace a prince. You know my meaning, 
Our wont is not to use vain rounded words ; 
I seek for Socrates to be his scholar. 

ANYTAS. 

That scarce may be till the dead rise again. 

PHILO. 

Till the dead rise again ? What mean'st thou? 

ANVTAS. 

Mean I? 
Spartan, he taught the state a false religion, 
Corrupted Athens' youth, and died the death ! 

PHILO. 

Died the death ! What ! Judicially condemn'd? 
Where was the lying tongue that dared impeach him? 
Where the unblushing face, the envious heart, 
The hellish soul that dared say aught against him ? 

ANYTAS. 

You wrong, sir, his accuser. He was not 

Impell'd by envy or by malice, but 

By a sense of justice, by a firm persuasion 

That what he did was right. Sir, you wrong me! 



SOCRATES. G7 

To cast such language on his just accuser. 

PHILO. 

Wrong thee ! Why, who art thou, that standest there 

And say'st that Socrates was justly murdered. 

And still art living ? Hath Jove lost his thunder 

That he forgets to launch it at a liar ? 

Thou worm, thou pitiful reptile — whosoe'er >■ 

Thou art, thou art a worm compared to him 

Whom thou disparagest, — I know thee not, 

Thank Heav'n, I know thee not — I would not live 

Under thy roof for all the gifts on earth — 

Who saith that Socrates was justly slain 

But thou, and thou alone ? Ye men of Athens, 

(^During this dialogue persons have been crossing and 
observing the speakers. A crowd has been collect- 
ing since the beginning of Vmi^o's speech. Crito 
is in the distance.) 
Is there a tongue among your hundred tongues 
Dare say that Socrates was guilty ? — Speak — 
All dumb ? — Nay, answer — Why was he condemned ? 

CRiTO, (coming forward.) 
He was condemn'd for keeping of the laws, 
For serving of the gods, for teaching virtue ; 
He was condemn'd, because he was too good 

To live on earth. 

f2 



68 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

ANYTAS. 

No ! But he was condemn'd 
For— 

CRITO. 

Anytas ! Thou hast had thy hearing where 
It did beseem not, — thou shalt not be heard 
While Crito's near to choke thy villainous lies, 
And cram them down thy throat ! He was condemn'd 
Because thou hated'st, envied'st, would'st have kill'd him ! 
Thou hated'st him, for he was virtuous ; 
Thou envied'st him, for he was loved by all ; 
Thou would'st have kill'd him — tvould'sthave kill'd him? 

—hast ! 

AN ATHENIAN. 

Bravely said, Crito ! He deserves it all. 

CRITO. 

What, ye have found a tongue? Ye now can think 

That Socrates was injured ? Fickle crowd. 

Where were your voices when they might have turn'd 

The scale of life and death? All, all cried — " Death ! " 

Death to the man tliat was your surest friend ; 

Death to — my eyes will play the woman spite 

My rage ! 

PHILO. 

Thy hand ! Thou answered'st me but now 



SOCRATES. 69 

Uiicourteously, — my question was untoward , since, 

I hive been right inform'd. Give nie thy hand ; 

Thou lov'dst, thou foUow'dst Socrates — enou^^h — 

Thou'st claim on Philo's friendship till he dies. 

But thou, the venom-draggling toad, that pois'n'st 

The very air with thy pestiferous breath, 

My curse be on thee I May thy nearest friends r 

Avoid thee — may the people shun thy presence — 

Taste not the well thou tastest of — bathe not 

In the bath thou bathest in ! — may meat grow rank 

When thou attempt's! to eat it — may the gods. 

Conspired with men, make terrible thy doom — 

Last, hating life, thyself, and all the world, — 

Lonely, though 'midst of crowds — with thine own hand 

Seek a damn'd death to shun a worse damn'd life. 

[Anytas sneaks away. 
— And ye whose popular voice abetted him, 
Ye, — can I call ye men ? nay, rather dogs 
That fawn to bite — a dog's too virtuous — 
Ye're likest ravening wolves that slink away 
Before the pow'rful, but attack the mild, 
Weak, and unguarded sheep — basest of base — 
Saved only, being lowest in the scale 
Of human vices, by his still worse soul 
That urg'd you on — Thank Heav'n ! I'm not of Athens ! 



70 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

Away ! I will not breathe the self-same air 
With you ! I will not enter in your city ! 
It were to meet contagion, 'twere to suffer 

The punishment your sins have merited 

Crito ! come with me, point me out his tomb, 
My only resting-place to-night : to-morrow 
With the first dawn of sun-rise I leave Athens — 
Leave her for ever ! Mark me, ye that call 
Yourselves Athenians, mark a Spartan's words — 
One hour of blind precipitation brings 
An age of tardy pain. There is not here 
A man so old he will not see the day, 
When, in a mourning vest and streaming eyes, 
Ye shall lament your unjust justice wreak'd 
Upon a guiltless head, — when, with a zeal 
As reasonless as was your hatred, ye 
Shall rear up temples to his memory, 
And with vain lamentations strive to bring 
Him back to life ! — I go, but mark my words — 

Repent and tremble Crito, lead the way. 

[Exeunt omnes. 

June, 1833. 

[This incident is related in Stanley's History of Philosophy, p. 92, and 
Hack's Grecian Stories, pp. 391—393.] 



DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

No. II. 



HORATIUS. 



The Roman forum. The Duumviki seated. The 
HoRATii and the People. 

TITUS, (one of the Duumviri.) 
PuBLius HoBATius, thou art accused 
Of two most high and heinous crimes : the one 
Gainst nature, and the other 'gainst the state. 
Thou'st sinned 'gainst nature, for thou'st killed thy sister. 
Thou'st sinned against the state, in that thou'st ta'en 
A life from out the state, a virgin, one 
Had ne'er borne children — so that by one death 
Thou'st murdered many ; therefore we, who are 
The representatives of Rome, and sit 
Here to administer justice, do condemn thee. 
Thy crimes are heavy, and the sentence death. 



72 DRAMATIC SKETCHES 

Howbeit, the state is merciful ; its laws 

Permit not unrevised judgments ; therefore, 

If thou hast aught to urge against our words. 

The law allows, appeal unto the people. 

{Cries of" appeal," and much disorder among the mob.~\ 

TULLUs HosTiLius, {the kinff.) 
Horatius, I am here a citizen, 
And cannot aid thee but with my advice. 
The laws are heavy — I cannot reverse them, 
The sentence just in strictness — I accord ; 
But as I have affection for thee, Publius, 
And would save thee that saved the Roman state, 
I do advise, appeal unto the people — 
There's mercy there, when in the judge there's none. 

PUBLIUS HORATIUS. 

My liege, I would appeal, if that I thought 

The mere act of appealing would not seem 

To own a guilty conscience — mine is free. 

I slew my sister, — 'twas a righteous act — 

I plead not for extenuation oft ; 

I glory in't. And if because I slew 

One who in body did belong to Rome, 

In soul to Alba, I've committed crime 

Worthy of death — why then, come death ! I care not. 



HORATIUS. 73 

MOB. 

Apj)eal ! Appeal ! 

HUST CITIZEN. 

Thy guilt is innocence. 

SliCOND CITIZEN. 

We will absolve thee if thou wilt appeal; 

Be silent, and thou art condemn'd, , 

SEVERAL. 

Appeal ! 

TITUS. 

Horatius, unless thou dost appeal 
Thou art convicted, and as on a convict 
Sentence must pass on thee. Dost thou appeal ? 
Go, Lictor, bind his arms — Dost thou appeal ? 
Veil his head, Lictor — Dost appeal ? — 

TULLUS HOSTILIUS. 

He doth ! 
Nay, frown not Publius — thy heart appealed, 
I only gave thy wish a voice. 

PUBLIUS HOIIATIUS. 

My liege. 
It is the only unkind action you have done me ; 
1 would have died, and deigned not flee the sentence, 
That Rome might one day weep a murdered son. 



74 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

MARCUS HORATIUS. 

Publius ! — my son ! — it is the king ! — 

PUBLIUS HORATIUS. 

Old man ! 
The Roman's king is every subject's friend ! 
But were he king of kings, I care not, I — 
He hath undone me by a coward word, 
I cannot choose but sanction ! 

MARCUS HORATIUS. 

Bless thee, son ! 

PUBLIUS HORATIUS. 

Bless me ! thou know'st not what thou sayest, father. 

MARCUS HORATIUS. 

Publius, thou art unkind — grief drives thee mad. 

TITUS. 

Publius Horatius, unto the people 

Thou hast appealed — ^before the people plead. 

Thou art accused of parricide and treason. 

Of parricide in having slain thy sister, 

Done in the sight of men, confessed but now : 

Of treason — thatthou'st fought against the state, 

By slaying one who was a member of it. 

This is thy accusation, where's thy answer? 

[ The moh press eagerly round — a jiause. 



HORATIUS. 75 

TULLUS HOSTILIUS. 

Were I not king of Rome — 

PUBLIUS HORATiUS. 

My liege, remember 
This is a court of justice, which no king 
May sway — respect its privileges, now 
Rather than ever, since the people judge. , 

TULLUS HOSTILIUS. 

Were it another man, Horatius, 
Had spoke me thus, that word had been his last : 
As 'tis, I pardon, though thou dost offend me, 
And love thee still — 

PUBLIUS HOllATIUS. 

I'm honoured in thy love — 
But pray thee pardon while I pray thee peace. 

MARCUS HORATIUS. 

Friends ! 

PUBLIUS HORATIUS. 

Father ! 

MARCUS HORATIUS. 

Nay, my son, hinder me not ! 
I go to snatch an innocent life from death ! — 
Away ! — Art not my son ? Cease, I command thee ! 

{^Breaks away, and addresses the people. 



76 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

Friends ! If ye are my friends, now show your friendship. 

What is my son accused of? — parricide ! 

He slew his sister — ye do see I weep not, 

Yet have I cause to weep ; my eyes are dry 

While I relate he slew his sister. Thought I 

He'd done a crime — say, am I not his father ? — 

Had not I power to kill him ? Should not I 

Have slain the villain (had he been a villain,) 

That slew my only daughter ? Heard ye ever 

Of father so unnatural, allowed 

His child, sweet blossom of his withered trunk, 

Be murdered without cause before his eyes, 

As I must be, if Publius be guilty. 

Had not I, for the good of Rome, been robbed 

Of two fair sons, cropped in the bud of life ? 

And think ye I could wish my children lost. 

To be an orphan'd father, despicable. 

For what had once been glory to me ? Friends ! . 

Have pity on me ! Oh, it melts my heart 

To think, that when the moon, that's scarcely filled, 

Showed her pale crescent in the heavens, four. 

Four lovely children called me "father" — ran 

To do my bidding — lived to serve me ! Noiv 

Two have died fighting for tlieir country's honour, 



HOIIATIUS. 77 

(I grudge them not — but yet my tears will flow). 

The third a gentle daughter, rudely slain, — 

But righteously — beneath a brother's sword, 

Is scarcely laid under the cold dark earth. 

The fourth, my sole remaining glory from 

So many glories, stands before the people 

To beg his life — for crime? Oh no ! for justice ! ^ 

Would have me childless? Speak the word ! — Horatius, 

Son, father, press a common grave, and Rome 

Has lost five citizens instead of three ! 

Behold where, hung on high, the noble spoils 
Of three slain Albans grace the forum, can ye, 
Beside a place which late posterity 
Will name from Publius — can ye, dare ye sentence ? 
My son ! my son ! — nay, 'void not my embrace ! 
To think thy glory looks down on thy shame ! — 
Romans ! ye saw this man return but now 
In triumph, laden with the hostile booty, 
And hailed him saviour of the Romans : him, 
So lately honoured, can ye bear to view 
Pass 'neath the yoke, be scourged, hang'd from the tree? 
The very Albans would abhor the sight I 
And shall an enemy teach Romans mercy ? 
No ! Lictor, bind his hands, which short while since 



78 DRAMATIC SKETCHES. 

In arms bestow'd an empire upon Rome. 

Go ! veil his head, the saviour's of the city — 

Suspend him from the tree, and like a slave 

Scourge him within the city or without — 

Within city, only within sight 

Of these the trophies of his prowess : scourge him 

Without the city, only let it be 

Between the new-dug graves of Curiatii ! 

Lead him where'er ye will ! Name me the place 

Which will not cast his honourable deeds 

In teeth of his accuser ; will not show him 

Unworthy of his most foul punishment ! 

[Applause — a pause. Several tri/ to speak ; on Tullus 
rising, they desist.'] 

TULLUS HOSTILIUS. 

Romans ! as citizen of Rome, not king, 

I rise to speak my sentiments Behold 

An orphan'd father pleading for his son, 

His daughter's murd'rer ! Have we hearts of stone 

That can repel his forceful eloquence ? 

Do we afFect to feel a father's loss 

More than the father ? Would we punish him 

With death, when he that's injured wills him live? 

Nay, rather let's appease the angered gods, 



HORATIUS. 7'j 

And some slight punishment inflict, to show 
At once our honour for Horatius' virtues, 
And detestation of his parricide ! 

MOB. 

Aye ! aye ! Jove save the king ! Agreed, agreed ! 

PUBLIUS HOEATIUS. 

Father ! My liege ! I was prepared to perish : , 
Your voices saved me when the bitterness 
Of death was passed. I thanked you not — I thank 
You now; for 'twere a fearful thing, methinks, 
T'have rendered up my soul dyed with the blood 
Of mine own sister ! Oh ! a moment's rage — 
A moment's want of thought, another moment 
Would have supplied, and — gods ! the dire result ! 

TULLUS HOSTILIUS. 

Yes ! Publius, 'tis a truth too often preach'd, 

Too little heeded — yet 'tis wisdom's chime 

Let it be yours — " Do nought in rage or haste." 



[The above sketch is hardly more than a paraphrase of the spirited tale 
ofLivy. See Liv. Hist. i. 2t). Corneille has made it the subject of one of 
his best tragedies. But in the trial of Horatius, the strict rules of the 
French drama have made him depart so much from the story of Livy and 
the method of Roman judicature, that, except in some parts of the speech 
of Marcus Horatius, there will hardly be found any resemblance to the 
above sketch.] 



HOW TO CHOOSE A WIFE. 



I see no matrimonial symptoms in our case, Sir Charles. — 

Pnnr Gentleman, i. 2. 



Tired with the road, and wearily I sit,* 

With mind untuned, and soul unoped to wit : 

Without, the rabble-children's squawling din. 

The fumes of tallow-dips and pipes within ; 

The noise of coaches rattling to the door, 

The finish'd novel, paper twice read o'er ; 

Th' uneasy chair, the chamber sofaless. 

The scarce-touch'd dinner which they could not dress ;- 

All, all conspire to make me dead and dull, 

And ev'ry thought that speaks of mirth annul. 

Then let me here the world in quiet scan, 

And pass a judgment on my brother man: 



* This was written in a country inn, after a weary day's ride, under the 
exact circumstances described in the text. 



HOW TO CHOOSE A WIFE. 81 

Like him, the self-created critic judge, 

Who'll pass upon my lines his damning "fudge !" 

And with such kindness as I scarce require, 

Throw fire into the verse — or verse in fire. 

I have th' advantage o'er him, though so cool — 

He swears he's wise — I own myself a fool. 

High-hanging o'er his anxious-lifted head. 
Appeared to Harry's eye the grape-bunch red : 
He springs — he seizes — but, alas the hour ! 
Tho' yields the tendril to his vaulting power. 
Within his little grasp one half are spoiled — 
Then let us learn a moral from the child : 
He that is anxious to possess too much, 
Too often ruins that within his clutch. 
Thus, if on four* short pages, I should try 
The world and all its follies to descry, 
'Twere planet-gazing with a microscope — 
A task too mighty for the strength of hope. 
I'll cut but one — and much it wants the knife — 
What is the way in which to choose a wife ? 

Portentous question ! Answer, ye Mammas, 
Aunts, Chap'rons, Match-makers, and glum Papas ! 

• The quantum of paper allotteci to the original MS. 
G 



82 HOW TO CHOOSE A WIFE. 

Answer, ye Beaux from eastward and from west ! 
Answer, ye Lords with fears of debts possess'd ! 
Answer, ye Misses at the boarding-school ! 
Answer, thou College-educated Fool! 
Answer, ye Country Maids, each blooming Kate ! 
Answer, ye City Dames, each old Coquette ! 

" How choose a wife ? " Sir Harry Hunter cries. 
With drunken stare of wondering surprise ; 
" Why, Where's the difficulty that you're in? 
" How choose a wife — pah ! ask about her tin! 
" See if she's spank, and clean about her joints, — 
" There's not a shade of doubt, those are your points. 
Sir Harry Hunter's an adviser true. 
He lays down dogmas, but he keeps them too : 
He married, as he bid us marry all. 
Ten thousand pounds — a splendid animal ! 
'Tis now two years, or scarcely, since they wived, — 
But more than one they've separately lived. 
Shame on the wretch who weds with money-dust, 
Or worse, to satisfy a brutal lust ; 
And ne'er bestows a thought upon the soul. 
The mind, that flame which lightens up the whole ! 

Yet careful be, lest, 'stead of that pure ray, 
A Jack-o'-lantern lead you all astray. 



HOW TO CHOOSE A WIFE. 83 

"How choose a — wife?" cries simpering, blushing 
Miss, 
" Lah ! how should I profess to know of this ? 
"Goodness! Why, Mind! of course, you'll seek for 

mind, — 
" Which has ' in its blue essence all confined,' — 
" So says Amata in the last new novel — 
" Sweet creature — such an angel in a hovel ! " 
Thus ever life's strange contradictions run, 
She bids you search for mind — herself has none. 
That " mind" on which her giddy soul is bent, 
Is a base mongrel thing hight sentiment : 
Mind raises man to thoughts and deeds sublime. 
While sentiment seduces into crime. 
And thus Miss Smirk contrived at last to catch 
A sighing youth — a sentimental match ! 
Well, the result ? — their honey-moon scarce pass'd, 
She found her Damon did not suit her taste. 
He had not "mind" enough — and, still more cruel, 
Compared her mawkishness to water-gruel. 
She was revenged — " I'll lovers have in plenty !" 
She's now abroad with cavalier servente. 

" I'll tell you how to choose a proper wife, 
" Without a chance oi fnv.r-pas or of strife. 
g2 



84 HOW TO CHOOSE A WIFE. 

" Avoid young giddy girls with heads like tops, 
" Whirling about, as servant-maids whirl mops; 
" Now one thing, now another, hot and cold, 
" Who won't one moment to the same text hold ; 
" And choose a maiden passed that foolish age, 
•' Wise in whate'er she says, nay even sage. 
" One who has patience to become a nurse, 
" And to be kind ' for better and for worse.' " 
These words were utter'd by Miss Bridget Bland, 
Who never yet had claimant for her hand ; 
And so, with due submission, like herself, 
We'll put her kind suggestions — on the shelf. 

" My daughter's pleasing, tonish, well-dressed, pretty, 
" Accomplished, sings, draws, dances, says things witty; 
" Flirts, chatters, blushes, (as I've had her taught,) 
" In short, does all that a young lady ought. 
" Why don't the men propose to her? for sure 
" Young rich Lord Thousandpound can't think she's poor!" 
True : but, good madam, in the list above. 
You've never mention'd heart and soul to love ; 
Your daughter may be weak, disdainful, proud, 
In not a thought upraised above the crowd. 
And yet be ev'ry thing you've reckon'd there — 
If so, what black-a-moor would think her fair? 



HOW TO CHOOSE A WIFE. 85 

No, when I choose — for I may choose a wife — 
I'll choose a dame to bless my future life ; 
A soul that chimes with mine — a heart to love, 
A mind directed to the Mind above. 
If Heav'n so will it, beautiful ; if not. 
In her soul's charms, her body's be forgot. 

\Mi December, 1835. 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 



Drum priifet, wer sich ewig bindet, 
Ob sich das Herz zum Herzen findet ; 
Der Wahn ist kurz, die Reu ist lang! — 

Schiller's Lied von der Glocke. 



In olden time, when, bashful and retired, 
Girls scarcely dared to be by Love inspired, 
But let him shoot his arrow e'er so arch, 
Repelled it blunted from a shield of starch ; 
In olden time, pent up in halls they tarried, 
Till some old baron asked them to be married. 
There was no talk of love ; indeed, between us, 
I hardly think they e'er had heard of Venus : 
'Twas a mere traffic 'twixt the parents, whose 
Estates conjoining, bid them not refuse. 
As for the lady — she was not consulted, 
When she'd of freedom for so long been mulcted, 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 87 

Freedom, howe'er obtained, must be her choice — 

Besides, the gentleman had scarce a voice. 

But times are changed, and with them customs change, 

Reform asserts her universal range. 

First to select the lady for his wife. 

The dear companion of his future life. 

Was granted to the man ; and next, though late. 

This last amelioration of her fate, 

The gentle woman had the liberty 

The suitor who displeased her to deny. 

Who of a random shot th' event can tell ? — 

" Give but an inch, they'll take, be sure, an ell." 

I've lately heard it said, and with surprise. 

My mouth all gaping, all a-stare my eyes, 

That ev'ry leap-year — (this year, in effect) — 

Women have right their husband to select ; 

Not till he asks them, all impatience drop, 

But without stay, themselves the question pop ! 

Long kept this saying flitting through my head — 

It haunted me at dinner, ball, and bed ; 

In all the motes that the gay sunbeams people,* 

I saw a wife, a parson, clerk, and steeple ; 



* " As the gay motes that people the sunbeams.'' — I! Penseroso, 1. 8. 
where see Wharton's note. 



88 HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 

And ev'ry now and then my qnick-glance catches 

Such unpair'd pairs, such ill-assorted matches. 

I see the Countess married to her Butler, 

I see the Colonel and the Army Sutler; 

No-read-and-writer with the Man of Book, 

The haughty Marquis wedded with a Cook ; 

A Fish-detester coupled with an Angler, 

A Bed-maker the partner of a Wrangler; 

The Star-despiser, and the Star-beholder, 

One who loves mutton-leg, and one the shoulder ; 

On Wedn'sdays and on Fridays what was sweeter 

Than fish-fed Catholic, and bluiF Beef-eater r 

A Puny Woman with the Man a Thumper, 

A High- Church Tory and Reforming Jumper ; 

An IW-bred Creature fondling with a Baker, 

A Lively Woman, and an Undertaker ; 

Sixty and Sixteen, not, alas ! uncommon. 

Though each might fare much better if they'd roam on. 

All this I bore, although with many a twitching 

In all my muscles, and my brain all itching. 

To have a downright cut-up of the matter, 

And pulverize the notion with a satire : 

Till at the last I saw, or dreamed I saw, 

(For I am apt to follow nature's law, 



now TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 89 

Like any other well-fed, well-bred sinner, 

And take a little nap just after dinner,) 

I saw, or dream'd — to quarrel for a word. 

Like classic critics, is but too absurd ; 

I ne'er could view their proud-writ "perperain," 

Without a muttered sound much like a "damn ! " — 

I dreamed I saw a young, confiding creature, , 

With love and innocence in every feature. 

Without a sigh leave her paternal cot. 

And choose — my ink would red to tell you what. 

No longer could I bear it — in a rage 

I sat me down, and penn'd a fiery page ; 

Read it — destroyed it ! Reader, never dash on 

A moral theme when in a furious passion : 

'Tis my advice — whate'er your verse inspire, 

Your words of fire are only fit for fire ! 

Sleep on it — to your rage's swelling billow, 

There's no such calmer as a soft down-pillow. 

One always thinks a reas'ner past all bearing, 

When he begins his argument with swearing ; 

Then let your wit (to quote Sir Lucius' word) 

Be keen, and yet as polish'd as your sword. 

Some days elapsed e'er I commenced again, 
.\nd here you have the labours of my pen ; 



90 HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 

In shape a moral essay, which, as said, is 
For the instruction of Unmarried Ladies : 
Teaching them how, when leap-year grants permission, 
They may by marriage "alter their condition ;" 
And giving them the true and sure direction. 
To choose a husband suiting their complexion. 
Various the tempers various husbands suit. 
The strings must e'er be tuned to match the lute ; 
Strain them too hard, the useless catguts crack. 
To tune insensible if left too slack. 
Avoid with care great similarity, 
An unison is scarcely harmony ; 
And, as if nature would condemn the act, 
Opposing magnet poles alone attract : 
Two planes too nicely smoothed will lightly sever, 
The dove-tailed roughness keeps them close for ever. 
Be not too hasty your affections giving, 
A new-raised structure is not safe to live in ; 
The walls must settle, lest the building rend, 
And show a gap no architect can mend. 
'Tis easy done to pledge to man your fate, 
But every pledge should have a duplicate. 
Beware lest any erring lead you make, 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 91 

The card once played, you must its sequence take — 
The game is doubtful — happiness the stake. 

How numerous open to my 'stonished view, 
The objects chosen — and the choosers too ; 
In one chaotic mass together mix'd. 
Nor yet by order to their stations fix'd ! 
How should I try each one in turn to school. 
And give each nuance of mankind a rule ? 
Were I, expert in mathematic lore, 
To take a ramble on the sea-beat shore, 
And as each spray-drop, when the billow broke, 
Started in air, as one from sleep awoke. 
Attempt, by patient observation's force. 
To assign to each its parabolic course ; 
'Twould need no Doctor's Burleigh shake of head 
To tell my friends, that all my wits had fled. 
Did I t' instruct the universe attempt. 
Should I from lunacy be more exempt? 
Thus then I'll act, my essay to compress 
Into a folio — or something less. 
I know some ladies — 'most of ev'ry age — 
Some young and giddy, some more old and sage ; 
These, with the priv'lege of an author, I 
Will ask in turn — reporting their reply — 



92 HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 

How they would choose, or how they chose (if wives,) 

From all the herd, the partners of their lives ; 

And with unswerving and impartial song. 

Praise them when right — instruct them when in wrong. 

One moment still, ere I commence indeed, 
To crave the indulgence that I so much need. 
Young and unmarried — how should I profess, 
Critics will argue, at such things to guess? 
True, 'tis but guess-work — yet some inward sprite 

Whispers, I am not very far from right ; 

While Fancy lends her telescope to see 

The dim grey distance of reality 

My dear Miss Simper, true, you're very young, 

And scarcely yet has love your bosom wrung; 

As yet a frock has been your greatest pride. 

Your greatest sorrow when your kitten died ; 

As yet, from school's contagious moral free, 

A laughing piece of mere simplicity ; — 

Suppose — I only put the case — suppose 

You wished to wed — perhaps you do, who knows? — 

Whom would your young affection fix upon? 

Whom would you marry? Nay, but answer — " John !" 

John? — and who's 'John?' "The footman!" — Why 
then, pray? — 

" Because he 's clean white stockings ev'ry day ! " 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 9:J 

Who could reply to such an artless speech ? 

Who would be first the tale of love to teach ? 

I cannot ! — Poets, rack your weary brains, 

Bring untouch'd snow from off Siberia's plains ; 

The rain-drop, ere it die on earthy bier, 

The air that skirts the bounds of atmosphere ; 

A beam of freshly-form'd celestial light. 

The ether that assists it on its flight ; 

Waste all your pow'rs on one bright simile, 

And then despair to match young girlhood's purity ! 

Disturb it not, for, oh ! 'tis Heav'n's last trace. 

That lights the sinless smile of childhood's face! 

Too soon it fades — too soon it dies by rule, 

Kill'd by a governess or boarding-school. 

Miss Lucy Forward was a girl whose heart 
Was free from ev'ry touch of worldly art : 
At twelve, an angel more than earthly child — 
At twelve, by taint scholastic undefiled. 
Alas ! a " Ladies' Seminary" now 
Has changed the free expansion of her brow ; 
A very cunning peeps through ev'ry curl, 
As if she wish'd to lay aside the girl. 
For form, I'll ask her too, altho' at once 
I could predict her womanly respon.se. 



94 HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 

" Close by my school," 'tis thus Miss Forward speaks, 

" Has lived — I think for nearly fourteen weeks — 

" A nice young man, that looks a little gay, 

" And keeps a prancing horse and cabriolet — 

" It passes by our window every day : 

" I've often watched him as the horse dashed by, 

" And once or twice I think I caught his eye. 

" Now if Mamma for once would let me choose, 

" And he should ask, I could not well refuse." 

Yet caught with glare, too young impatient moth ! 

Alas ! it is their Jlame destroys them both. 

There are some things at once so evident, 
They only lose their force by argument : 
As, who to level water madly tries. 
Can only make the undulations rise. 
And thus I cannot deign to let my song 
Pronounce, forsooth, Miss Forward's choice is wrong. 
Have I a reader who's so little sage ? — 
For God's sake, reader, quit my stupid page ! 

Sweet Kate, the beauty of the village plain, 
As clear and joyous as the blackbird's strain ; 
And Ellen, beauty of the assembly-room. 
As fair and tender as the orange-bloom ; 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 95 

Both loved — both married — both in earth are laid, 

Murder'd by hope deceived, and trust betray'd. 

" Avoid young Robert," was her father's cry, 

" Would'st thou be happy, Kate, as dame and I : 

" A temper changeful, and a restless mind, 

" (No trust in weather with a shifting wind) ; 

'• A daring spirit, and a stern proud eye, , 

" A recklessness towards authority. 

" Whence he has come, none knows — but all aver 

" He ne'er will be a peaceful villager : 

" On high ambition all his soul is bent, — 

" Not e'en with Kate his spirit were content." 

" Father, you know him not as well as I — 

" He loves me — dearly ! " was her sole reply. 

They married — why the truth attempt to hide ? 
A robber he, and simple Kate his bride. 
Their tale of woe is soon concluded — He 
Perish'd for murder on the gallows-tree ; 
She, as the pines upon the Indian plain 
Bow, fall, and perish 'neath the hurricane. 
Struck down to earth at once, without a sigh, 
Besought of Heav'n its last kind boon — to die. 

'Tis sad to trace fair innocence beguil'd, 
A woman of her happiness despoil'd ; 



96 HOW TO CHOOSK A IIUS15AND. 

When some seducer's wretched villainy 

Leaves her dishonour'd mate of misery : 

But oh ! how sad, when some mean money-chaser, 

(And who of all mankind is lower, baser?) 

Without the paltry pretext of desire. 

Nay, without feigning e'en a lover's fire. 

Decoys some simple, dear, confiding girl. 

Judging all spirits by her mind of pearl, 

To let him grasp the booty he wovild gain, 

And bind her captive with a legal chain. — 

Poor Ellen ! can I call that act "a choice," 

In which her reason had so little voice ? 

Yet could I preach a sermon on the text. 

Of one so wrought, so in th' extreme perplex'd :* 

But hence with weeping — haste we to the next. 

I know that face — Ha ! Mrs. Readaway, 
I scarce have seen you since your wedding-day ; 
And that is — let me see — six weeks ago ! 
So let me really ask you, how d' you do ? 
To tell the truth, I'm very glad we've met. 
As I expect from you, good ma'am, to get, 



' Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought. 
Perplex'd in the extreme." — Olhelln, v. 2. 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 97 

What others have allowed outright to hobble 'em, 
Solution of a very curious problem. 
You are a woman, ma'am, that makes pretence, 
Nor without reason, to some show of sense ; 
You're past the girlish age, and own it too— . 
Have studied much — are thought a little blue ; 
Conned the confused relations of society, ' 

Can draw the line 'twixt freedom and propriety ; 
Nay, to my knowledge, have advised full oft 
Young giddy creatures about matters soft ; 
Taught them to deaden or encourage vows. 
And how to choose a lover, how a spouse. 
Gifted with knowledge based on such like ground. 
And with a judgment that's so seldom found, 
Your husband must, in sad reality. 
The ne plus ultra of all husbands be. 
Tell me, I pray, th' ingredients one should use 
To mix up husbands such as you would choose, 
That I may write them for the world to see 
The wond'rous spouse — concocting recipe. 

" Alas !" the lady cries, "of this be sure, 
" The doctor's self the doctor cannot cure; 
" And our condition, trust me, never worse is, 
" Than when we're thrown upon our own resources. 
H 



98 HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 

" Fain would I now my head diminish'd hide, 

" Broken my all-advice-dispensing pride; 

" But since I cannot point what should be done, 

" At your request I'll warn them what to shun. 

" And let my own example be believed 

" The best, of self-sufficiency deceived. 

" I chose not hastily, for that were wrong. 
'• Nor did I wait, as I conceived, too long; 
" My husband — then my suitor^ — too well plied 
" His assiduities, to hurt my pride. 
" I deem'd him learn'd — and learn'd he is, forsooth, 
" In puzzling notes that hide the face of truth ; 
" Learn'd as a schoolman, and instructed well 
" In the minutias of a particle: 
" Exploring parts with miscroscopic soul, 
" With no conception of the mighty whole ; 
" As rats that revel in a castle's flaw, 
" Know not it is a castle that they gnaw. 
" I deem'd him learn'd — it flattered me to greet 
" Learning subdued and bowing at my feet. 
" I do believe his motives were the same, — 
" He courted me because I had a name : 
" It were a triumph, thought he, for a sage 
"To conquer one, notorious in her age 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 99 

"For wisdom, prudence — (think me not so weak 
"To laud myself — in bitterness I speak). 
" Why should I, one by one detailed, relate 
' ' Each petty motive which brought on my fate ? 

" Enough ! I married — just six weeks ago 

"Six weeks' humility — six weeks of woe ! 

" My slave before, my slightest wish forestalling, ' 

"My tassel -gentle* ready at my calling; 

" My master now, enwrapped in selfishness, 

"No more the votary ofpoUtesse; 

" Whate'er I said, denying my position, 

" ' Obey ! ' his ceaseless cry, ' 'Tis t/our condition ; 

"' Advance I aught, admit it without strife, 

" ' A blind submission best becomes a wife.' 

" Oh, had I listen'd to a friend's advice, 

" Nor, self-sufiicient, dared to make a choice ! 

" Oh, ye fair maids, who've yet a choice to try, 

" Choose whom you will, but do not choose as I! " 

Far in a dale, where Nature's lavish hand 
Had framed on earth a poet's fairy-land, 
With minds as pure as the bright skies above, 
Dwelt two fond trusting votaries of love : 

* " Oh for a falconer's voice 

To lure this tassel-gentle back again." — Romeo and Juliet, ii. 2. 

h2 



100 HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 

Both young — yet ere their mutual plightings bound 

Their common soul with tie eternal round, 

Each each had tried, each each unconscious proved, 

And ere confessed, each heart each heart long loved. 

It is not oft that in the heav'n appear 

The sun and moon together shining near : * 

He, like the fire of manhood's youthful prime — 

She, like the mildness of the virgin time ; 

He, throwing o'er her form his mantle bright — 

She, only shining by his borrow'd light : 

It is not often in the world we see 

A pair together matched in unity; 

The man at once the husband, lover, friend, 

In whom the woman's hopes begin and end ; 

She, his in heart and feeling as in name. 

And only shining by her husband's fame. 

The examples are so few, 'twere hard to try 

To lay down rules that smack'd of certainty -. 

One only can — as oft is done in school — 

Put down th' exceptions, and infer the rule. 

♦ " A virgin bloom 



Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought 
That tower'd upon his brow ; as when we see 
The gentle moon and the full radiant sun 
Shining in heav'n together." — 

T. Moore — Vision of Philosophy. 



HOW TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND. 101 

Do not my proud-writ title then abuse, 

But read, for "how to choose," "how not to choose." 

Ladies ! for you I wrote — then let your slave 
Your pardon for his venturous lesson crave. 
Oh, blame him not for what he's dared to print — 
Giants may profit, though a dwarf may hint. 
Think, when the pealing organ's solemn tone 
Raises your souls to worship at heav'n's throne; 
Pause ere you praise the great composer's skiU, 
That sways and bends your feelings at his will; 
Pause ere you praise the player's practised hand, 
(That great magician's music-stirring wand) ; 
And think that, spite of their united power. 
All this were dead— without the bellows-blower ! 



\:U}i March, 183(>. 



MY RECANTATION. 



Ciascuna sa et conosce bene, me non esser molto vscito d'i termini. 
Et se pure uscito ne sono (o isdegno o giusta cagione, che se I'habbia 
operate) io a tutte humilmente chieggio perdono : promettendo per 
ammenda del mio peccato a guisa dell' antico Stesicoro, il quale prima 
biasimo, et dipoi per rihauere il perduto lume torno a lodare la da lui 
biasimata Helena ; prometto dieo a qualche tempo di dir delle donne 
altretanto bene, quanto n' ho detto male. — Dialogo Piacevole d» Mr.ssER 
LoDovit o Dolce, Tiidini, 1542. 

Whereas it hath been broadly hinted. 
The writer of these lines hath printed* 

• The passages for which this Recantation is written, are the following : — 

"ON WOMEN. 
" [Each couplet is the translation of a single Greek iambic gnome, uti- 
dique collaia.] 

" 1 Many a reason could I give 
t Why women never ought to live. 

2 Search all the tribe of womankind 
You'll not the slightest diff'rence find. 

3 Unless you'd seas of trouble swim in, 
Oh, never trust your life to women. 

4 She's handsomest, that says naught wrong — 
Then let all women hold their tongue. 

5 AVhene'er ye hear of man's disgrace. 
Be sure a woman's in the case. 

6 Oh, recollect, ye single men, 
A woman's arm's a lion's den. 

7 When beauty is to girls allied, 

You soon may know it by their pride." 

Kaleidoscnpr. p. 339. 



MY RECANTATION. 103 



Impertinence against the Ladies, 
Of which an accusation made is ; 



"If we have any fair readers, we beg them to skip the following two 
paragraphs, inasmuch as we are afraid lest, peradventure, much imperti- 
nence towards "the sex divine" be compreliended therewithin. 

"His igitur breviter et suaviter exposilis, as our Latin themes say, we will 
proceed in the contrast. Hatred, though it does sometimes happen in 
powerful-minded women, can almost be called the peculiar passion of man. 
It requires a strong mind and a noble spirit to possess it. For envy, anger, 
malignity, spite, are affections widely differing from each other, and from 
hatred, though they are frequently confounded with it. But all these 
latter passions are common to the lowest nature, to the vilest spirit, 
and are shared between the meanest of mankind, and the brute part of 
creation. On the contrary, hatred requires a rational being to conceive it ; 
and though its aim and its continuance may be equally irrational, yet to 
bring it to a conclusion, and conduct it on its way, demand no slight use of 
the reasoning faculties. The true hater is a man, and a man of sense, of 
honour. But the envier, the angry, the malignant, the spiteful, are men 
of but mean capacities, or are women, over whose affections the reasoning 
faculties have but slight power, compared with those of men. Not that 
we would speak disparagingly of womankind ; but it is well known as a 
philosophical fact, that generally speaking, the development of the female 
brain bears nearly the same proportion to that of the males in all classes of 
animals, at that of the body and muscular powers of a female to that of 
the same in a male. 

"But while hatred seems natural to man — if indeed hatred be not an 
adventitious rather than a natural passion — its concomitant, or rather 
kindred affection, antipathy, seems characteristic of women — but not of 
that class of females called, por excellence, "the sensible;" no, they that 
are "sensible" are scarcely susceptible of the feeling. It is that so 
much more numerous class, (only taking into consideration the so-called 
"educated" part of womankind,) which is composed sometimes of the 
highest classes, too much weighed down and encumbered by the burden 
of affectation to display any passion of the mind according to nature, who 
cannot love, and who canno^*, hate ; it is such as they, and others whose 
ideas are confined, tliat are the prey of antipathy — a disease but too com- 
mon among the fashionable ennuyees of this country. And now, if we 
should have seemed unwarrantably severe on the ladies, we sue for pardon, 
and remind them of the privileges of an essayist, and the vain attempt of 
quarrelling with an anonymous." — Httlred and Anlipa/hy — Knleidnscopr. 
pp. 2f)0-2f)2. 



'^B 



104 MY RECANTATION. 

Be't known to all of every station, 
He hereby reads his recantation. 

Deposeth first, that when inditing 
Said rhymes to Ladies so affrighting, 
Nay, e'en long after they were written, 
Said bard had ne'er with love been smitten ; 
And some one says in pithy verse, 
" Who's never loved, can't write a curse" — 
(Don't be offended at the line. 
Neither the verse nor oath are mine) : 
But since that day his wounded heart 
Hath felt Love's secret-rankling dart. 
Then, wand'ring like a stricken deer, 
Dark groves and gurgling fountains near, 
He warbled forth such strains as these, 
(Accompanied by whistling breeze. 
In voice much Uke Lablache's old, 
Or Grisi's — when she has a cold). 

Sweet fountain, thou flowest as clear and as bright 
As the beam that thy waters is dancing upon. 

Giving Earth, thy sweet handmaid, her meed of delight. 
And greeting with murmurs thy bridegroom the Sun; 

Oh, accept of my tears ! for my soul is in night. 

All starless, deprived of its bright-beaming One I 



MY RECANTATION. 105 

O then, while I bend thy sweet waters above, 
Smile upon me, and murmur the soft notes of love ! 

Thus sighed my heart, by love made sore. 

Adding (says Jaques)* "my sum of more," 

In whinings, pinings, rhymes, and such, 

"To what had much, oh, much too much !" , 

These strains, translated, Echo bore 

At each rebound enfeebled more, 

Until at last they died away. 

Lost in the hum of busy day. 

Thus have I seen, fat, greasy, big, 

A butcher drive a fatter pig; 

Great was its squeaking, great its struggle, 

The butcher of his prey to juggle, 

Till in the slaughter-house 'twas driven, 

And its gagged cries scarce reach'd the heaven ; 

Which from the ear, and weak more weak, 

Died off in cadence, squeak by squeak. 



* First, for his weeping in the needless stream, 
' Poor deer,' quoth he, ' thou mak'st a testament 
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
To that which had too much.' — 

Ax yon like it, ii. 2. 



106 MY RECANTATION. 

Yet thus I was not always sighing, 

In groves, near streams, all pining, dying. 

Sometimes amid a youthful band, 

With song in mouth and glass in hand, 

(As if we weren't for Charon's ferry meant,) 

Love was the theme of boist'rous merriment. 

For thus Excitement, still supreme, 

Delights to join each far extreme ; 

Tossing the wond'ring soul about, 

And turning it 'most inside out : 

Now to the lowest hell-pit waft her. 

Now break her sides with peals of laughter ; 

Now make her with delight delirious, 

Now swear delight is deleterious. 

Now for a drop of water pine ; 

Now stoutly call for flasks of wine — 

It was in some such jovial company — 

Not any doleful face or mump any. 

Not any ugly wretch or frump any, 

Not any lack-a-days ! or dump any. 

Who sighed and whined and would be pitied. 

Was ever to its feasts admitted ; 

But a fine troop of hearty fellows. 

To joyous songs blew nature's bellows ; 



MY RECANTATION. lo: 

And none are ever like the young's 

Strong, opening, broad, expanded lungs : — 

It was in some such jovial crew. 

That all my former nonsense knew ; 

How I had dared to say, "I'd give 

Reasons why women ne'er should live," 

And (as the world but too well knows) 

Presumed to slander them in prose ; 

And though there, 'sooth, was nothing in't, 

Ventured the scandal-lines to print : 

It was 'midst these, that with a jeer 

Had late observed my silent tear, 

That I was press'd, and press'd most rudely, 

Not to behave so very prudely ; 

Not to hang head — a very dunce. 

But come, confess the truth at once. 

Some deity my head inspired — 

Bacchus perhaps my brain had fired — 

And starting upwards from my seat, 

With attitude and action meet, 

I poured amidst the laughing throng 

" My unpremeditated song." 



108 MY RECANTATION. 

Come, fill up the glass, 

Pass the flagons about — 
Drain your cups till they drought — 
Here's to the lass ! 

Who without love hath passed his days, 
And ne'er in smiles of Beauty sported, 

Who ne'er her soul-enlivening rays 
Her joy-inspiring presence courted, 

Deserves to live in cold sobriety, 

Slave to some Temperance Society ; 

Have every wish and pleasure thwarted, 

On all his actions feel a clog. 

And die at last as dies a log ; 

To ashes and to embers dwindled, 
Burnt by a fire it never kindled. 

Come, fill up the glass, &c. 

But he that, blessed by powers above, 

The groves of Paphos pleased hath haunted, 

Hath own'd the conqu'ring might of love, 
And been by Cupid's shaft enchanted ; 

Oh, he it is that with propriety 

May live and die in our society, 



MY RECANTATION. 109 

And taste of pleasure never granted 
To those dull souls that, like the Greek, 
(Whose language once I tried to speak,) 

Declared, " He'd seas of trouble swim in. 

Who'd ever trust himself to women. " 

* Come, fill up the glass, &c. 

Then hear me vow a vow as deep 

As e'er by mortal lips was spoken — 

May I for ever sigh and weep 

A wounded pride, a heart-string broken, 

If ever more I do up-cry a tye 

More sweet than woman's soft society. 
Or by the slightest sign or token, 

Asleep, awake, in love or out. 

Stock still, i' th' waltz's whirl-about, — 

Hint that I 'm not, when near to Beauty, 
Her's " to the shadow of her shoe-tie ! " * 

Come, fill up the glass, &c. 

Now, Ladies, e'er I quit my pen, 
Let me implore of you again. 



' Madam, I am, as is my duty, 

' Yours to the shadow of your shoe-tie." — Hudibras, p. iii. cant. i. 



no MY RECANTATION. 

Forget, as not of any note, 

The thoughtless vpords that once I wrote, 

E'er yet from childhood I'd sprung out. 

And wist not what I spake about. 

Be not — O be not — ^fair ones, hard on 

A bard who begs in rhyme for pardon ; 

But — as the blacking-makers write 

Upon the walls in red and white. 

To customers and friends polite, 

Their customary bold invite, 

■" At 30, Strand, you best had buy it, 

" And if you doubt it — only try it," — 

In humble imitation, I 

Thus beg and pray you " only try ;" 

Secure, whatever else I've said, 

This pray'r at least is Warren — ted. 

16lh January, 1836. 



SENTIMENTAL VERSES. 



Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto, 
Di Lancilotto, come amor lo strinse — 
Galeotto fil il libro e chi lo scrisse. — 

Dante, VInferno, cant. 5. 

INTRODUCTION. 

My muse is proud, for 'tis allowed by all as transcendental, 
But Mrs. G. declares to me, no line is sentimental. 
And therefore I, poor wretch I must try what every bard 

abuses, 
In pamby verse, false Cupid curse, court Venus and the 

Muses ; 
And to some fair prefer my pray'r, comparing her to 

Caesar, 
Who sees and comes, and overcomes, and proves a 

precious teaser, 
And call poor me the enemy, o'er whom the day she's 

winning ; — 
Thus 'twill be done, when I've begun — now list to the 

beginning. 



112 SENTIMENTAL VERSES. 



I._TO JULIA. 

Around, above, the sky is gloom'd, 
Like some dark flow'rless heath ; 

In leaden clouds the sun is tomb'd, 
And Earth laments his death. 

The bird scarce moves her heavy pinion. 

All hearts are quail' d — 'tis griefs dominion, 
And hush'd is every breath. 

That told of joy in bright days past — 

Nature for her sins doth fast. 

O Julia, such my heart, — so dark. 
So sunless, as this heavy day, — 

It smoulders, though without a spark. 
And wastes to death away. 

Ah ! once, once was it bright and smiling, 

When I, my time with Julia whiling. 
By Julia's guiding ray, 

To light, to happiness was led — 

Hath that time for ever fled ? 



TO JULIA. 113 

Fair one, adieu ! my lips have said, 

What long since past, your eyes, — 

Unfeeling for the heart that bled, 
The heart that bleeding dies — 

Too plainly to be miss'd had spoken : 

Fair one, adieu ! those links are broken 
That never time supplies ; 

For e'er, for e'er, the chain is riv'n — 

Heaven ! be we both forgiv'n ! 

Those verses there are pretty fair, yet not what was 

requested. 
The rhyme too oft in cadence soft, the wording has 

suggested : 
The simile's too long for me, and every line breathes folly, 
And so again, O inky pen, be not so melancholy. 



114 SENTIMENTAL VERSES. 



IT.—TO ELIZA. 

Bright blue-eyed maiden with the flaxen hair, 
Oh ! smile enchanting on my secret pray'r ; — 
In silence long I've watch'd thee — do but smile, 
Fair glory of my own blue isle ! 

Lightsome, and free, and sportive as a faye, 
Fair human model of an April day. 
What heart can love thee not, when thou dost smile, 
Bright glory of my own blue isle ! 

Spain's haughty daughters, from their eye of night, 
May flash their heart-subduing thunder-light : 
Thou beamest gentleness, — then smile, oh smile, 
Sweet glory of my own blue isle ! 

Them we may fear, nor dare to break the chain, 
That binds the slaveling to their victor-train ; 
But thee we love, heart-love, — then smile, oh smile, 
Lov'd glory of my own blue isle ! 



TO ELIZA. 115 

Oh ! if kind heav'n would grant me one boon more 
Than seeing thee, and seeing to adore, 
'Twere to be loved by thee, whose god-like smile 
'S the glory of my own blue isle. 

Ha! ha! my love doth much improve, as I get into training, 
Your stanzas five, as I'm alive, are something to be vain in! 
For mind — (but this a secret is) — poor Julia ! I despise her. 
While through my heart soft tremors dart, whene'er I 

name Eliza. 
And when one feigns a lover's pains, without a real passion. 
There is a curse spoils every verse, and makes the whole 

a hash on. 
And so again, O inky pen, sing my love's real object, 
Of number three once more will we, make dear Eliza 

subject. 



i2 



H6 SENTIMENTAL VERSES. 



Ill TO ELIZA, (bis.) 

Joyous and free through the woodland sounds 
The cry of the huntsman and bay of hounds ; 
With a smile on his face, and with heart unpained, 
The huntsman the poor driven fox hath gained ; 
And though he be free from all cruelty, 
He condemns the fox to die. 

Joyous and open, nor knowing guile, 

With a beauty-charm beams fair Eliza's smile. 

Unmeaning to injure, too kind to wound ; 

Yet she throws all a lover's hopes to the ground ; 

And though she be free from all cruelty. 

In despair around they die. 

Up to this time my sighing rhyme to the same tune has 

sounded, 
And every line has to a whine, or to a tear been rounded. 
And now enough of such like stuff, which bears the critic's 

probe ill, 
I'll try and stir hexameter, to some dame proud and noble. 



TO CLELIA. 117 



IV TO CLELIA. 

Clelia ! maiden of song! fair nympli whose darkling eyes 
languish ! 
Who with love's conquering art seizest on every heart ; 
Dare one who secretly loves thee, reveal his unspeakable 
anguish? 
Wilt thou his worship brook, nor with a death-look 
rebuke? 
Verse which Ovid of yore to love and love's sighing 
devoted, 
Let me oiFer to thine else inapproachable shrine. 
What though the harshness which England's rough lan- 
guage is proud of, be noted, 
Love is again and again soft as Italia's strain. 
Hence with constraint — let not rhyme any more its free 
courses unfetter, 
Let it run on as of yore in overflowing of love. 
Clelia ! maiden of song ! fair muse on this earthball de- 
scended ! 
Darkly bright as the stars beaming thro'shade of the night, 
Give me, oh give me 



* Waller, in some lines headed, "0/ Tea, commended by her Majesty," 
observes that, " The Muse's friend, Tea, does our fancy aid ;" and it is a very 
old remark, that sentimentality is " milk and water ; " I think then, that 
the present production cannot fail of being both fanciful and sentimental, 
as it was actually written during the interval between fwn len.i, while 
detained by illness on a, journey. 



118 SENTIMENTAL VERSES. 

Ahem ! ahem ! — this raises phlegm ! Now " by the heav'n 

above me ! " 
As honest Fal said to prince Hal, "no more on't, an 

you love me ! " 
'Tis very wrong that every song should be from man 

forsaken, 
For, oh ! too oft by prattlers soft, fair women in are taken. 
So, e'er I've done, I'll give you one, as sad as ever pen 

did. 
And then I think, some tea* I'll drink, and get my old 

quill mended. 



THE FORSAKEN. 119 



V._THE FORSAKEN. 

Gone! — gone ! — but yet he'll soon come back, — 
For e'er he cannot leave me ! — ' 

Deceive me! — 
Crack, heartstrings, crack! — 
Hear me, O heavens ! curse — no, curse him not — 
I cannot curse him ! my poor brain is hot — 
Flow, flow, ye tears ! 

Gone ! — gone ! — and left me here to weep alone ! — 
No! who would e'er believe me? — 
Deceive me! — 
Gone, false one, gone! — 
'Tis o'er — with love's delusion life must end* — 
Send me, O Heav'n ! that last, that dearest friend, 
Send — send me death ! 

* " Ich habe gelebt und gelicbct." — Schiller. 
\?tlh Decemhcv, 1835. 



ON THE AUTHORESS OF 



" Love, the germ 

Of her mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 
Expanding with its progress, as the store 
Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals, 
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 
To flush and circle in the flower." 

Talfourd's Ion. 



How calm a spirit, soft, subdued, benign, 

And womanly withal ! as much of heaven 

As serves to etherealize, — as much of earth 

As serves to raise a fellow-feeling in us, 

And gently guide our reverence into love ! — 

Unwonted union ! Oft, too oft we find 

That soul which doth the pure and calm abode 

Of holy thoughts affect, (as some tine statue, 

Which, though it all but breathe, yet doth not breathe,) 



ON THE AUTHORESS OF . 121 

Stands out from mixing with its fellow minds, 
Alone, admired, revered, — but, oh! unloved: 
For love can only be with kindred spirits,. — 
It is the mutual yearning to each other 
Which can alone exist in similar natures. 

Hast marked in early morn upon a leaf, 
Two pearly drops of dew with eager haste 
Approach and mix, and form one common whole ? 
Had not both been of dew, think'st thou they'd met ? — 
Hast thou not marked the sailor-guiding needle 
Swing round impatiently if aught of iron 
Came but within its ken? Had it been gold, 
Though far more rich, more glorious, nay, more pure. 
Would it have stirred ? — And so is it with love. 

Man is of earth — and if Heaven willed him so. 
Should he repine, — should he, while earth's damp air 
Slackens the filmy wings on which he'd mount, 
Or ere the time appointed* — should he dare 

• " Standing close to the edge of the stream, 1 remarked a singular ap- 
pearance on a large tuft of flags. It looked like bunches of flowers, the 
leaves of which seemed dark, yet transparent, intermingled with brilliant 
tubes of bright blue or shining green. On examining this phenomenon 
more closely, it turned out to be several clusters of dragon-flies, just 
emerged from their deformed chrysalis state, and still torpid and motionless 
from ilie wetness of their filmy wiinjs. Half an hour later we returned to 
the spot, and they were gone. We had seen them at the very moment 
when beauty was complete and animation dormant." 

Miss Mitfobd's "Our Village." 



122 ON THE AUTHORESS OF 



To virtually cast a slur on God, 

For having made him earthly, by renouncing 

All the soft kindly feelings of his being ; 

The sister's love, the father's anxious hope, 

The friend's desire, the husband's tenderness ; 

And, with a "pride that apes humility,"* 

Hold himself stoic-wise from man and passion, 

To keep himself to heav'n alone? Just Heaven ! 

That hast so many precepts wise and loving. 

For social state laid down, it cannot be ! 

Give me the noble thought, the pure intention, 

The devout mind ; but, oh ! when I embrace 

My friend, let me embrace a fellow-man. 

Nor vainly strive to grasp an earthless spirit ! 

Thanks, thou pure Author, who hast taught me how 
Such visionary union may be formed, 
How heaven's bright sunshine best may beam upon us, 
To show heaven's handiwork. Had all been light. 
Light's self, the contrast wanting, had been dark. 
'Tis matter only sending back the light 
That makes light useful ; as 'tis light alone 
Beaming on matter, makes that matter precious. 

* And the devil did grin, for his darling sin 
Is pride that apes humility. 

ColeridCtE's Devil's Thnxighli. 



ON THE AUTHORESS OF . 123 

The diamond in the mine's dark cave concealed, 

Is poor and worthies as a common pebble. 

Till the bright sun gives it its brilliancy. 

But could eye e'er have figured to itself 

Light's splendour, if 't had ne'er in diamond beauty 

Beheld its sportive beams luxuriate ?* 

November 13tli, 1836. 



* Perhaps in a note it may be allowed to bend this simile another way 
peculiarly applicable to the fair writer addressed. 

So nature's wreath was ever fresh and fair, 
Yet half unheeded, till some cunning artist 
(Like him that cut the diamond brilliantwise) 
Unostentatiously displayed each charm, 
Then left us to adore and humbly love. 



124 



SONNET 

ON THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR. 



The year hath set, and on the self-same day 

That it arose !* A year of toil and strife, 
A year of anxious watching, wastes away 

And fades, as still another comes to life. 

With dubious chance and emulous labour rife- 
How like a mighty genius, that doth wing 

His daring course sublime, until the knife 
Of pitiless Time comes where his pinions spring. 

And lops them off revengefully ; in hope 
To sink his victor to Oblivion's shade, 

And kill the mind with which he could not cope. 
Vain hope ! as on his bier the poet's laid, 

A double immortality marks the day,t 
That smiled to see him born, and weeps at his decay. 
December Z\sl, 1835. 

* The 31st of December, and the 1st of January of the same year, necessa- 
rily fall (except in Bissextile) on the same day of the week. 

f Shakspeare was born the 2".rd of April, l.')n4. and died the 23rd of April, 
1616. — " The smiles and tears that cross an April day," may perhaps justify 
the last line. 



125 



SONNET. 



A sinipls (.-hild, 



That lightly draws its breath 

And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? — Wordsworth. 



Thou still art in thy morn of life, fair child, 
A bright clear summer morn ; — no tempests wild 
Threaten to cloud thy dawn, thou happy one ! 
May'st thou be ever so, for ne'er yet shone 
The warm sun on a warmer heart than thine. 
What is 't that parts the human and divine, 
If thus in one, conjoined harmoniously, 
(As colours strong-contrasted, by degree 
Flow into one another, till the mind 
Despairs the line that bounds each tint to find,) 
If thus in one they breathe, and live, and move ? 
O were I sceptic, could I ask for more 
To prove the glorious form that once we bore. 
The heavenly compound of eternal love ? 

Nuvc7nher 6lh, IS36. 



126 



ELEGY ON MARIAN. 



BY THE PARISH CLERK OF 



Optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris.— Otiid. 

Tlirice happy babe ! for surely she 
Was born on purpose for to be 
Admitted to eternity. 

Epitaph in Ciimnor Churchyard, Berka. 



Sweet Marian was the hamlet's pride, 
Till in her innocence she died 

A calm and happy death ; 
Cut off in bloom, she fills a grave — 
To earth another man she gave, 

And then resigned her breath. 

Oh ! hadst thou seen her lightsome bound, 
Her foot that scarcely touched the ground. 

But seemed of fairy mould ; 
Her light slim form, her flowing hair, 
Her cheeks, her eyes that glittered there, 

And in quick glances roll'd ; 



ELEGY ON MARIAN. 127 

Her eyebrow's arch, her lips of rose, 
Her pearly teeth as white as snows, 

Her soft and dimpling chin ; 
Her rounded neck, her swelling breast, 
Her tender arm, and o'er the rest 

Her brow unmark'd by sin ; 

Had heard the sweet and gladsome tone 
That in light accents seemed to own 

A joy unmixed with ill ; 
Had known her heart, the virtues' home. 
Had known her love that ne'er could roam, 

But e'er was constant still ; — 

Then thou wouldst ne'er have doubted why 
Her soul from earth was snatch'd on high : 

The answer thou wouldst give. 
If 'chance some friend deplored to thee — 
Her fate so premature, would be — 

" She was too good to live ! " 



THE GHOST STORY. 



A BALLAD. 



AN OLD TALE VPRY LITERALLY AND FAITHFULLY RENDERFD.* 



' I'll tell you a story without any flam." — The Cork Leg. 

' Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this buke." — Gawin Douglas. \ 

It was the dreary noon of night, 

And I in slumber sound, 
Peaceful reclined upon my couch, 

Warm- wrapped in bed-clothes round. 

When suddenlie I heard a noise, 
By turns 'twas strong and weak — 

A noise that street-doors love to make, 
When they on hinges creak. 



* Vide Penny Magazine, No. III. p. 24. 

t Quoted as the motto to that best of all Ghost stories — Tarn o' Shanter. 



THE GHOST STORY. 129 

I jump'd upright ttiere in my bed, 

And cast my eyes around ; 
But I could nothing see which might 

Have caused so odd a sound. 

At last I toward the door did look, 

And through the vista deep, , 

I saw, or else I dream'd I saw. 
For I was half asleep ; — 

I saw a pale blue light come up 

The stairs right tardilie. 
And still it nearer came, and stood 

At last quite facing rae. 

My hair stood stiff upon its end. 

At that sad sight and sound ; 
But colder ran my blood, when I 

Saw shadows vast on ground. 

Beneath the bed-clothes fearfully. 

My face concealed I, 
And while cold drops of sweat ran down, 

I groaned right heavily. 
K 



130 THE GHOST STOHY. 

At last 1 ventur'd to look up, 

But still I saw the light, 
And as 1 look'd, methought the flame 

Grew larger and more bright. 

So by the light I did perceive 
A figure gaunt and grim ; 

Oh ! how I wished the light it would 
Once more again grow dim ! 

And he was tall as giants are, 
His hair was silv'ry white, 

And round his waist a loose long gown 
Was bound with leather tight. 

His beard was thick and grisly, as 
It never had been mown ; 

Large cap was on his head, and staiF 
Was in his hand of bone. 

Astonished at the horrid sight, 
I could not move a limb, 

My eyelids would not shut, but still 
My eyes would gaze on him. 



THE GHOST STORY. 131 

Long time I sat thus in a trance, 

And should have longer been, 
For such a sight by mortal eyes, 

Had never yet been seen. 

(Oh ! never, never will I doubt 

What folks do often say, ' 

That nightly apparitions come, 

And scare our sleep away !) 

Longer I'd been, but it came near, — 

I think I see it now ! — 
And stared me in the face — I cried, 

" Speak ! Whence and what art thou? " 

Then, in a hoarse and rugged voice. 

Which seem'd as if of hell, 
To my demand respondently, 

He this of him did tell : — 

" Ar'n't please your honour. Sir, I be 

" The watchman of the night ; 
" (My candle flares, because, d'ye see? 

*' The paper has caught light). 
k2 



132 THE GHOST STORY. 

" But as I was a-saying, when 
" Your honour spoke to me, 

"As I was passing by, I did 
" Your street-door open see. 

" So I made bold to come up-stairs, 
" To tell you, for I knows, 

" That if it be not shut, you will 
" Be robb'd before cock crows." 

Windsor, May, 1832. 



EXERCISES IN RHYME, 

No. I. 



LORD COMYN. 



A ROMAUNT. 



Noch einmal sattelt mir den Hippogryfen, ihr Musen, 
Zum Ritt ins alte roraantische Land ! 
Ich seh' in buntem Gewuhl, bald siegend, bald besiegt, 
Des Ritters gutes Schwert, der Heiden blinkende Sabel. 

Wieland's Oberon. 



Alone ! — and in the hour of night ! 
Lives there on earth so brave a wight, 
In chivalry so true a knight, 
Who, maugre blows and goblin's might, 
Dares with the giant vast to fight, 
Sir Hildebrand of Bisto hight ? 
Yes — there is one — of figure slight, 
(With soul that ne'er held honour light,) 



134 EXERCISES IN RHYME. 

Lord Comyn nam'd. On Lymmon's * height, 

He 's vow'd Sir Hildebrand to smite, 

And all his vaunted honour blight, 

Beneath the cold moon's waning light. 

Lord Comyn woo'd a lady bright, 

Yet found not favour in het sight : 

For she, in stubbornness empight, 

Of Bisto's hands required the right 

From him, whoe'er would be her knight. 

How oft she'd Comyn's soul incite, 

By swearing, " If with morning's light 

•' He came victorious from the fight, 

" She would not bar the sacred rite ! " 

He sped him forth, in doleful plight. 

While twinkled yet the dim twilight, 

Resolv'd to bear him as he might. 

The Giant came with bitter spite, 

And arrows dipp'd in aconite. 

His scarce seen form indefinite 

Grew larger to Lord Comyn's sight. 

Beneath the moon's uncertain light ; 

Whose rays on helmet opposite, 

* Qy. PlinlimTnon. — Printer's devil 



LORD COMYN. 135 

Glanc'd gleaming like a meteor bright. 

He saw, and eager for the fight 

Lord Comyn scowl'd with brow like night, 

Which not a star shines forth to light. 

A dart he aim'd with eager might, 

But from the Giant's corslet bright, 

The blunted weapon bounded light, ' 

And harmless fell, split bipartite. 

Grim beam'd Sir Bisto with delight. 

And thank'd in heart the faithful wright 

Who forg'd the arms he wore that night. 

Then thus he spake, the boastful wight : 

" In vain, O thrice renowned knight, 

" Thou'lt hope to 'scape mine arrow's flight, 

' ' Dipp'd in distill'd fell aconite, 

" And formed by that immortal wright, 

" The demon king, all-pow'rful sprite. 

" Now die the death, thou puny mite ! " 

Scarce spake he — ere, with dext'rous sleight. 

Lord Comyn cleft the bowstring tight : 

It fell in twain, and useless quite. 

The Giant swell'd with pituite. 

And stood as if some curious wright 

Had form'd him marble at the sight. 



136 EXERCISES IN KHYIVIE. 

That moment lost him — for the knight 

Struck blow, which neither man nor sprite 

Could stand, and yet survive the light. 

The Giant fell^ his head y-pight 

With Comyn's faitliful weapon bright, 

Bless'd by his lady's parting sight. 

'• Cursed be thou and thy foul birthright," 

Mutter'd, and died the Giant wight. 

Then of his hands all bounden tight 

With gauntlets of resistless might. 

Lord Comyn clove th' unwieldy right. 

And bore it to his lady's sight. 

Ere yet there beam'd Aurora's light. 

Him joyous met the maiden bright : 

" Now, now thou art my own true knight, 

" More precious than the chrysolite, 

" More pure than purest diamond bright ! 

" Well hast thou proved thyself in fight ! " 

Thus spake and blush'd, and gave her plight. 

23rd March, 1832. 



EXERCISES IN RHYME. 

No. II. 



TO MADEMOISELLE TAGLIONL 



" Voulezvous danser, chere Mademoiselle?" — Old Song. 
" Lorsqu'un homme a commis un manquement dans sa conduite, soit aux 
affaires de sa famille, ou au gouvernement d'un etat, ou au coramandement 
d'une armee, ne dit on pas toujours : Un tel a ait un mauvais pas dans 
cette affaire ? Et faire un mauvais pas peut-il proceder d' autre chose que 
de ne savoir pas danser?" — Le Bnnrc/eois Gentilhomme, Act i. Sc. 2. 

All hail, thou earthly-born Terpsichore ! 

That ne'er stepped wrong and ne'er did kick awry, 

That spring'st about on legs so muselely. 

Tossing thy scant frock and large bustle high ; 

That hidest thy face in pirouetting it 

So long, that we are nigh forgetting it; 

Or on one toe stand'st perpendicular. 

Like Hamlet's each stiff " hair particular ;" 

All hail ! sole-dancing soul* at th' Opera ! 

Ne'er wilt thou find a temple properer, 

* Query, "sole." — Printer's Devil. 

Let the Printer's Devil read Shakspeare, he will find it is " Not on thy sole, 
but on thy soul." — Merchant of Venice. 



136 EXERCISES TN RHYME. 

Ne'er find a crowd so much your worshipper 
As Fashion 's wont each night to perch up there ; 
That loud in Boxes, Pit, and Gallery, 
Raise — their applauses, and — your salary. 

Fleet as a fawn from out a thicket, I 
Have seen thee bound, all smile and wicked eye ; 
Pass me tow'rd Heav'n, and ne'er come by again 
But to spurn Earth, and thither fly again. 
And then, well pleased, attend th' applauding hand 
Of ev'ry fashionable lord in th' land. 
That thrice a- week cram full that handy box, 
Self-termed, j9ar excellence " The Dandy Box." 

These are to conquer England, France's hopes. 
Draining our bank to pay these dance's hops. 
These are her measures, since at Waterloo 
The British cannoneering brought her low ; 
Measures more potent far than Bony's leagues, 
And by the wise yclept " Talionis Lex." 

1835-6. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON. 



ODE III.* 

MtcrovvKTioil Trod' iopaii, k.t. \. 

TwAS midnight, when the Northern Bear 
Turned down and claimed Bootes' care, 
And all the tribes of mortals lay 
Worn with the labours of the day. 
Then Love came by, and stood before, 
And loudly beat my fasten'd door. 
" Who knocks," cried I, "so late at night? 
" Wliy put ye all my dreams to flight? " 
" Pray ope the door," sly Cupid said, 
" A child am I ; you've nought to dread ; 
" I'm drench'd, and from the path-way right 
" I've wander'd in this moonless night." 
I pitied when I heard his woes, 
And instant from my bed arose : 

* This was published in the Kaleidoscope, No. W. p. 137. 



140 TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON. 

Lit up my lamp, and oped the gate, 

Near which young Love, the infant, sate. 

Slung o'er his back a bow he bore. 

And wings and arrows' rustling store. 

Beside the hearth I placed him down, 

And chafed his hands within mine own ; 

And from his cold and dripping hair 

I wrung the rain collected there : 

But when he felt his nat'ral glow, 

" Come, come," said he, " I'll try my bow, 

' ' And see if still the humid string 

" With all its wonted force can spring." 

His arrow flew, and in my heart 

I felt it like the gadfly's smart. 

Up, spiteful laughing, sprang the boy — 

" Mine host," he cries, "come, give me joy ! 

" Unhurt my bow impels the dart ; 

" Thou'lt feel the arrow in thine heart." 



ODE IX.* 



Lovely Pigeon, through the sky 
Whence and whither dost thou fly ? 
Whence so many perfumes pour 
From thy wings in scented show'r, 
Roaming through the air at large ? 
Who art thou ? and what's thy charge ? " 

' 'Tis Anacreon sends me now, 
Bearer of the tender vow ; 
To Bathyllus, reigning king 
O'er each heart, this note I bring. 
From Cythera was I bought, 
A little hymn the price she sought. 
Now I own Anacreon's sway. 
He commands, and I obey. 

* This appeared in tlie Eton Coll. Magazine, p. 67. 



142 TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON. 

And, behold, for him I bear 
Letters through the pathless air. 
Often will he say to me, 
' Pretty Dove! I'll set thee free.' 
But though freedom I obtain, 
Still his slave will I remain. 
Why o'er fields and mountains high 
With weary pinions should I fly, 
Perch on rugged trees, and feel 
Wild and sad my lonely meal ? 
Now how sweet the bread I find, 
From Anacreon's self purloin'd : 
Now he gives me wine to sip 
From the cup that's kissed his lip ; 
Then I drink and dance and sing. 
Shade my master with my wing ; 
And by slumber when oppress'd, 
On his harp I take my rest. 
I've told you all — Away ! away ! — 
Man ! thou'st made me prate to day 
More than any prating jay." 



143 



SONNET. 



He was a hero ; — true, the battle-field 

He ne'er had trodden, ne'er had braved the axe 
While bearding tyrants — ne'er with sword and shield 

Did with a knightly pride " all comers " tax 
To pay their homage to his 'ladye love,' 

Or wait th' ordeal of his mighty arm : 
But he was more -, — distress nor scorn could move 

Him from his purpose, and from out a swarm 
Of undeserved enemies, at last 

He rose victorious up, triumph'd, and died. 
Thus have I seen the sun, cloud-overcast. 

Appear with patient hope its time to bide, 
Break thro' the veil, e'er yet its time was pass'd, 

Shed forth a radiance mild, and then to darkness glide. 

Nov. 6th, 1836. 



144 



STANZAS.* 



" Quam dulcis \itae exsortem 

Abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo." 

Virg. Mn. Ti. 42«. 

1 AM not old, yet I have lived 

An age in my few years ; 
With grief and joy by turns have strived, 

Have smiled while shedding tears ; 
Yet this hath all been secretly, 
And few that know me wot that I 

Have felt Love's anxious fears, 
Or groan'd beneath Despair's sad yoke. 
Or wept — because I never spoke. 

Yet in my solitary heart. 

Upon itself thrown back, 
I've felt each deep and deadly smart. 

Go nigh its strings to crack. 

• Reprinted from The Kaleidoscope, No. V. p. 183. 



STANZAS. 145 

Ah ! once I had a Comforter — 
But she is gone — depriv'd of her 

My energies grow slack : 
I thought indeed — but she has gone, 
And left me in the world — alone. 

And I was young, was very young, , 

Yet I could feel her loss ; 
I felt my little heart unstrung : 

No argument could gloss 
Over my sorrow for her death : 
It seem'd that her last parting breath 

Had changed all earth to dross ; 
So long was I, or ere again 
My soul shook off the gloomy pain. 

My mother ! it may have been best, 

That thou didst perish then, 
T' enjoy a calm, unbroken rest, 

Unmov'd by care again ; 
Yet if thy parent's death cost thine. 
Think on the grief that then was mine. 

When first a father's pen 
Traced out the gloomy character 
Which told my grieving heart — you were. 
L 



146 STANZAS. 

But now that that sad hour is o'er, 

And years have thrown between, 
Made up of my too-crowded store 

Of other cares, a screen ; 
Which, though I never may forget 
That painful moment, mellows yet, 

And makes it dimlier seen, — 
As in the mist of evening shades, 
More sweetly still appear the glades ; — 

Now thither oft 1 fly in thought, 

And live it o'er again, 
And feel my heart with sorrow fraught, 

And heave with grief as then. 
And this is pleasure sad, but soft, 
A pleasure never felt too oft, 

That pleases with its pain. 
Here meet we never, mother mine ! 
When shall I taste of rest like thine ? 



SONG. 



Audis minus, et minus jam ; 
" Me tuo longas pereunte noctes, 

Lydia, dermis ? " 

Horace. 



Yes, adieu to thee, fair one, adieu ! 

Restore me my grief-withered heart ! 
Since against it Love bent the sad yew, 

And plucked from the cypress a dart. 
When it loved thee, proud Beauty, it loved 

As a soul fresh to love and to guile ; 
But thine own did not deign to be moved, 

Cold and still as the glacier's pile. 



148 SONG. 

Oh ! as birds, when the summer is o'er. 

Reluctantly leave their abode, 
And fly to some more favoured shore, 

Where the sunbeam still laughs to his god ; 
So my heart, tho' unwilling to roam. 

Yet if frozen by beauty's cold frown. 
Will at last with that Fair make its home, 

Who will answer its warmth with her own. 



21th Jan. 1835. 



SONG.* 



" Nos separations ne sc faisaient jamais sans larmes, et il est singulier 
dans quel vide je me sentais plonge aprfesl'avoir quittfee." — J. 3. Rousseau. 



Battles before we meet again 
Will mix me in their strife; 
But midst the fight, the throng of men, 

For thee I'll guard my life. 
All else were nothing — thou alone 
Art all in all, my sweet, my own, 

My love — my wedded wife ! 
That one soft word whose accent cheers 
The hope of man's desponding years. 

* Reprinted from the Knicidoscopc, No. I. p. 40 



|50 SONG. 

Adieu ! my country calls me forth, 

Her call I must obey ; 
Is there another voice on earth 

That bids me hence away, 
Which for one moment I could hear 
While you, my love, with starting tear 

Stood by and bid me stay ? 
No ! Love may not with patriots dwell- 
I go, my wife — ^farewell ! farewell ! 



SONG* 



ADDRESSED BY A FAIRY TO A YOUNG LADY WHO WAS ON THE 
POINT OF DEATH, BUT RECOVERED. 



' I hear a voice thou canst not hear, 
That summons me away." — Anonymous. 



Come with me! come with me! to the fields so green, 

And the meadows which shine so bright, 
Where every pleasure shall own thee queen, 
And the sun shines forth with unceasing sheen, 
Nor yields to the gloomy night. 

Come with me ! come with me ! thou maiden chaste. 
And taste of the joys which I do taste. 

• Reprinted from the Kaleidoscope, No. II. p. 72. 



152 SONG. 

Come with me! come with me ! to the shady grove, 

Where the brooklets ripple along, 
And balmy gales thro' the trees scarce move, 
And birds only tune the sweet voice of love, 
Their soft melodious song. 

Come with me ! come with me ! to where care is displac'd, 
And taste of the joys which I do taste. 

Come with me ! come with me ! I have built thee a bower 

Of roses and eglantine, 
And every sweet and scented flower, 
Topp'd with the palm-tree's shading power — 
This, maiden, this shall be thine. 

Come with me ! come with me ! by thee be it grac'd, i 
And taste of the joys that I do taste. 

Come with me! come with me! but my call is in vaui! } 

Why, maiden sweet, wilt not thou ? 
I would free thee at once from this deadly pain. 
And make thee live a new life again. 
If thou wouldst but follow me now. 

Come with me! why wilt thou not, maiden chaste? 
Come, taste of the joys which I do taste ! 



IMPROMPTU. 



ON BEING REQUESTED TO WRITE "SOMETHING GOOD" IN 

A lady's album. 

•' Bona bonis prognata parentibus." — Eton Latin Grammar. 
^tpi.1 <Ta<pii TL irpdyoi ia&Xov rj kukov kKveiv. 

iEscHYtus, Pers. 244. 

You've ask'd me, dear, for "something good," 
And quick I'd write it, an' I could ; 
But "something good" I've never had, 
So be content with "something bad." 

As Delia at her mirror stood,* 

She smiled and thought it "something good ;" 

Yet every loutish looby lad 

Had sense to say 'twas "something bad." 

* iyw Si irXoKa/nov dvadi-TOi.^ 
fxiTpaicnv kf>pvQp.iXfiixav 
Xpvarewv IvoTTTpwv 
Xtvacrovcr' dTlppLOvai ti<s avydi. — Eurip. Hec. 923. 



154 IMPROMPTU. 

The doctor says. " Take this — you should !"* 
"What is it?" — " Only something good." 
The patient tastes and sighs, "By Dad, 
" Old Foguey, this is 'something bad.' " 

"Ah! Simon doth just what he should," 
Saith Paul, "he's truly 'something good.'" 
The ladies cry — "Why, Simon, lad, 
"You can't too much,f that's 'something bad,' " 

" Young Tomldns for the county stood, 

And gained — now ain't that 'something good?'" 

Tomkins howe'er is not so glad, 

The cost proclaims it "something bad." 

A punster takes up Thomas Hood, 

And laughing cries — " That's 'something good!' " 

The sour sectarian, always sad, 

Sighs — "OiF! avaunt! 'tis 'something bad.'" 

* Sed, veluti pueris absinthia tetra mcdentes 
Quom dare conantur, prius oras pocula circum 
Contingunt mellis dtdci flavoque liquore, 
Ut puerorum setas improvida ludificetur 
Labrorum tenus ; interea perpotet amarum 
Absinthi laticem. — Luc. i. 928. 

t To cant— that is— 

de traitresse manifere, 

Se faire un beau manteau de tout ce qu'on revfere ! 

Le Tartufe, Act v. Sc. 7. 



IMPROMPTU. 155 

The epicure that studies food, 
Calls French things only "something good." 
The rustic cries — "For cheese Fze mad — 
"Those dom French frogs be 'summat bad!'" 

Thus proving by examples sad, 

That "something good" is "something bad." 

Pray let it now be understood. 

This "something bad" is " something good." 



Dover, 
June 26th, 1835. 



METCALFE AND PALMER, PRINTERS, CAUURIDGE. 



ri(,T 



..-0 yn 



